


The Affair

by ponticle



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Cancer, College Setting, Fluff and Angst, HIV positive, Hawke/Cullen past, LGBT, Loss of Parent(s), Love Triangle, M/M, Men in love, Mention of Domestic Violence, Minor Anders/Karl Thekla, Modern Day Thedas, Modern Thedas, Romance, Sad with a Happy Ending, Same-Sex Marriage, Secret love, Therapy, affair, anders' real name, complicated marriages, couples therapy, dragon age modern au, good parenting too, hawke/anders past, past abusive relationship, sad sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-07-15 07:05:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 44
Words: 101,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7212661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponticle/pseuds/ponticle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dragon Age Modern AU - Modern Thedas</p><p>  ...In which Alistair is a novelist, Cullen is a history professor and Anders is a corporate attorney... and everyone's past is complicated. :) </p><p>  <b>BOOK ONE</b>: Alistair and Cullen met in college, but never managed to cement their relationship before they married other people. After an epic ending to their affair, Alistair meets someone new and starts to heal--but will it be able to last?</p><p>  <b>BOOK TWO</b>: Alistair and Anders attempt to make a new life, but their pasts continue to haunt them.</p><p>  Entire story is written as a retrospective from Alistair's point of view.</p><p>  Now with awesome pieces of ART!<br/><a href="http://ponticle.tumblr.com/post/150003241449/im-so-excited-to-show-the-first-of-the-art-i-had">Chapter 1 Comic</a><br/><a href="http://ponticle.tumblr.com/post/150116427709/a-knowing-expression-this-awesome-portrait-of">Anderstair Portrait</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Alistair**

 

It was in those first days of learning about Cullen that I learned about myself. I suddenly had feelings that couldn't be expressed publicly—but I still _had_ them; they were a _reality_. **They still are.**

 

* * *

 

“We need to stop doing this,” complained Cullen one morning.

The sun hadn't even risen yet and he was already running from me.

“What?” I asked stupidly. I should have known that he was starting the process of separation. Instead, I tried to reason with him.

“What do you mean?” I asked into the skin of his neck. I let my lips trail across the edge of his jaw and eventually nip into his ear. It was a calculated move, but an effective one. He shivered.

“How much longer can we keep this up?” he asked.

“It depends… Do you think Icis is getting suspicious?” I asked.

He wrapped his arms around my back, which I took as encouragement.

“No… But I—” he interrupted himself when I trailed a palm between his legs.

I smiled—a boyish smile, full of _ignorant_ bravery. I had no idea what he was capable of then.

“ _Al—_ ” he said my name like he wanted me to stop, but I knew he didn't—not really. We had this argument toward the end of most of our trips. Cullen always pulled away emotionally when we were within 24 hours of our return flights. By the time we went our separate ways in the terminal he wouldn't even hold my hand.

“Cullen,” I propped myself up on an elbow and hovered over him. “Maybe this time, we could just pretend we _aren't_ going to have to say goodbye… We could just say ‘see you soon,’ instead?” I smiled encouragingly.

He didn't look impressed. “Al… I need to get going… My flight is at 8.”

I felt my face fall—it was involuntary… A physical embodiment of how hard it was to let go of him.

He rolled his eyes—a gesture I didn't think I deserved. “C’mon, let's get up…” He rolled out from under me and walked toward the shower.

 

* * *

 

Two hours later, we were through security.

“I'm A32,” he said.

I looked down at my ticket: A02. I sighed, “I guess this is it.”

Sometimes we were lucky and our gates were close together. Once they had been adjoining. We sat together in the gate area like friends—like a real _couple_ , even. He'd let a palm rest on my knee… Today, though, we were heading in opposite directions.

Cullen pulled me into a half-hearted hug. It was perfunctory at best. “See you in a couple months,” he said tersely. He was looking over my shoulder the whole time.

As I watched him walk away, I felt that familiar pain in my chest and a sudden urge to cry. It hurt just as much this time as it had all the others.

“Goodbye, Cullen,” I mumbled. _I love you._


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair and Cullen meet at a ski lodge in Haven. From Alistair's narration perspective, he views and evaluates what should have been warnings. 
> 
> This chapter is NSFW. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that my other big pieces are finished, I think I'm going to delve into this one a little deeper. Subscribe for updates. :)

Between clandestine meetings, I threw myself into the running of my company. At 35 I was the youngest editor in chief in _Denerim Times’_ history. Of course, I hadn’t really _earned_ it—it seemed more like dumb luck than anything else. Whose father leaves them a company without ever _meeting_ them?

It certainly wasn’t a sense of duty to my sperm donor that made me work hard—it was something deeper, something more instinctive. I had always been the type of person to take on more than he could actually handle. In college, I was so busy with activities that I only slept 4 hours a night. It was the same drive that led me to marry Bella Surana so early. I just wanted to _settle_ things— _finish_ them and move onto the next hurdle. And she was great--a really wonderful person—so I didn’t think I’d regret it. By the time my affair with Cullen started, I’d already been married five years.

Now that I think of it, I might _also_ have been driven to Cullen because of some deep-seeded need to conquer. He was the only person in my life who I couldn’t command. Everyone I knew followed my advice without question— _except him_.

* * *

 

The morning of our next meeting, I was itching to get out of the office, but I had a thousand meetings to attend and phone calls to make. The most important phone call of the day was from him.

“Just meet me in the bar,” I suggested. “We can pretend not to know each other…” I laughed.

Cullen sighed into the phone, sending a whooshing sound into my ear. I rounded the corner and waved to a few scattered interns whose names I couldn’t remember.

“No?” I asked.

“Just check in and leave the key at the front desk,” he said dismissively. There was no arguing with his tone.

“Okay…” I acquiesced.

I had a million things I wanted to say to him, but I couldn’t find the words. Talking to him on the phone was _always_ like that—we were better in person.

“Hey Al,” he said suddenly, “I can’t wait to see you.”

I felt a blush crawling across my cheeks. I tried to duck into my office before anyone saw me. After all, I was supposed to be visiting an ailing relative in Haven—there should be _nothing_ happy about my demeanor. Truth be told, I was running out of excuses to tell my colleagues and Bella. I had to keep the lies congruous: Bella knew everyone in reception and _both_ my assistants—any inconsistency would be easy to spot. Not that Bella would be _looking_ —she trusted me implicitly. A pit was developing in my stomach.

“Al?” repeated Cullen. “Did you hear me?”

“Yes…” I stammered, “I can’t wait to be alone with you…” My voice was thick and full of gravel as I pictured the scene.

“See you tonight,” he said, hanging up.

* * *

 

Several hours later, an uber dropped me off in front of a beautiful ski lodge. The air was crisp and snowflakes fell onto my hair. Cullen and I agreed we could have lived here—in another life.

Upstairs, I unpacked absently, checking my watch. At half past nine, I heard the lock click. I turned to see Cullen’s blond mop of curls—snowflakes still melting into the upper strands.

“Hi,” I said, sheepishly.

He dropped his things in the entryway and was on me a second later. He was often like this—insatiable at the beginning and distant toward the end. It was a microcosm of a relationship, after all—we only got to do this four or five times a year.

He pushed me back against the wall—a little too hard—and growled into my ear, “I missed you…”

Something deep and guttural escaped past my lips before I could examine it. This whole thing was primal—especially when I first saw him. I grabbed at the buttons of his shirt and fumbled to undo them between kisses. I sucked his bottom lip into my mouth and bit down. His eyes snapped open—he liked my roughness _to a point_. Mostly, he liked me to bait him into pushing me around.

He apparently understood the signal. He ripped my shirt off over my head and pushed me back onto the bed in the center of the room. The bedspread was down—very soft. A few wayward feathers puffed into the air in response to our weight. I saw them drift back toward us in my periphery. No matter how much I wanted Cullen, no matter how much I _loved_ him, I could never really let go. I always noticed our surroundings—the bedding, the lighting, a sound from next door. In retrospect, it was a _warning_ —a red flag—but I never recognized it as such.

“Have you lost weight?” he asked, as he unbuckled my belt between us.

“Maybe a little... “ I responded. I _had_ lost weight—10 pounds at least. I was the leanest and most visibly muscular I’d been in my whole life. I’d done it _for him_.

“You look amazing,” he whispered.

I blushed and helped him out of the rest of his clothes. When we were completely bare, I always felt a little strange. It wasn’t the feeling of intimacy that I had with Bella. Being naked around her was passé—I might as well have been wearing clothes. It came from years of conditioning.

Being naked with Cullen was unusual, and therefore, a little scary. I postured—trying to make my body look and feel a certain way.

I ran my hands along the planes of his chest, trying to discern every vein and variation in the muscle. “You’re not so bad yourself,” I smirked. In my estimation, he was _ridiculously_ handsome.

He let one lip curl up, revealing his left incisor. It was an expression I’d only ever seen him make for me. My heart beat faster as I grabbed him around the chest and reversed our positions. A lot of our lovemaking began as wrestling.

“Have you been training too?” I asked him. I straddled him, pinning him to the mattress.

He laughed, “The closest I come to ‘training’ is running and doing a bunch of lunges.”

It was funny because I’d been telling him he needed to lift heavier weights for years. I henpecked him a little in those days.

He wrapped his hand around my ribcage and pulled me toward him. I pretended to struggle for effect, but let my chest drop onto his a moment later. He kneaded the skin of my hip and thrust against the skin of my abdomen. I smiled when I realized how hard he was. I still hadn’t gotten over the shock of eliciting this response from him. After all, he was the person I’d secretly loved for half my adult life—I couldn’t _believe_ he loved me too… _if_ he did… we had never talked about _that_ particular thing. I didn’t dare bring it up—my fear of rejection was strong enough to paralyze me.

“How do you want me?” I asked, my eyebrow raised suggestively.

He smirked, “on your knees…”

I obeyed immediately. In doing what he asked _expertly,_ I was ultimately in control.

He stood with the backs of his thighs against the bed for support. I settled in front of him eye to eye with the head of his cock. The strangest thing about making love to Cullen was that although we had the same anatomy, there was a high level of variation. If anyone had asked me, I would have said I preferred his cock to mine anytime. It was slightly shorter, but thicker and without the left-leaning tendencies mine had. Noticing a bead of white emerging, I sucked him into my mouth.

Cullen groaned. I tipped my head to the side in time to see him close his eyes.

As I licked and sucked along his length, I took an inventory of his features. I didn’t _mean_ to—it was involuntary. His beard was fuller than the last time I saw him—I liked it. A thin sheen of sweat was forming across his brow. The muscles of his thighs were contracting in stuttering bursts.

When he caught me staring he shot me a smoldering look and grabbed the back of my head. He liked to feel like he was in control even though we _both_ knew whose teeth were in position to leave indents if he wasn’t careful. I almost laughed until he hilted into my throat. I tensed slightly, but regained my composure quickly. I silently congratulated myself on my under-active gag reflex. I held still, my jaw unhinged, while he fucked my mouth. He loved this, I knew. I grabbed my own cock with my right hand and pumped it a few times. I had some ideas about where to put it.

He pulled me up suddenly. We were standing face to face before I could wipe the excess spit from my lips. He kissed me bruisingly. “Do that again,” he said.

“What?” I asked.

His eyes trailed down my abdomen to where I was hanging—slightly left. “Touch yourself… for me…” He bit his lip.

One thing _I_ liked was to be watched. In any activity, really. Sports, meetings, performances, and _especially_ sex. I grabbed my cock again and rubbed its head against the inside of Cullen’s thigh. He shivered.

His next moves were choreographed expertly. He grabbed me around the hips and pushed my torso down against the bed. I arched my back toward him. I didn’t look back, but I heard the condom wrapper fall to the floor somewhere behind me. I steadied my legs and tried to mentally prepare—often, he liked to top… I liked it better the other way around, but I wasn’t one to argue—I liked _him_.

And then he was inside me—in that place no one else had ever been allowed to go. I watched the scene unfold from some high corner of the room. To avoid the full, rough, _invaded_ feeling this always gave me, I detached from it. That wasn’t to say I wished he wouldn’t—but rather, that I was still getting _used_ to it. As he sped up, I heard a whimpering sound and realized _I_ was making it. He laughed and dug his fingers into my hips.

I’m still not sure how long this whole process took. I'm sure it varied from encounter to encounter, but I will _always_ remember what it felt like to come on that bed sheet. The contraction was gripping and the release that followed felt sticky and hot against my stomach.

He was done a moment later. As soon as the euphoria died off, I was never sure what to do. Run into the bathroom? Strip the sheets off the bed?

He leaned on top of me and kissed my shoulder. I wished he’d keep doing _that_ —I wished he’d _hold_ me. But that wasn’t his style.

 

* * *

 

An hour later, we were clean and I’d managed to sort out the bedding situation. I’d tied some loose shorts around my waist, but avoided putting on a shirt. So had Cullen.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, paging through the room service menu.

“Always…” I joked. I wasn’t _actually_ , but I didn’t want to go to sleep. Sleeping seemed like a waste of the precious time we got to spend together. I was already rationing the minutes we had left. These _particular_ minutes were the most important type—the type that included _talking_ : about the meaning of things, about the fabric of existence, about current events, about hopes and dreams, about logic. These were my favorite minutes of _life_.

“Okay,” said Cullen absently, “order me a burger.”

I smirked. Cullen had the worst eating habits of any extremely fit-looking person I knew. When I got off the phone, he was propped up against the headboard. His posture was relaxed and easy, to match the smile he wore.

“So… CNN or FOX tonight?” I joked. Cullen was a republican, which was infuriating, but made for some interesting debates.

“Neither--I’m giving up on politics,” he sighed.

I grabbed the remote, “History channel it is…”

I turned the volume down low enough that we could talk over it without shouting. It was just a jumping-off point, anyway—a way to spark conversation. The current program was about Seheron.

“I want to go there…” I mused.

“Me too?” Cullen quirked an eyebrow, “But not in the current political climate…”

I leaned back against the headboard next to him and grabbed his hand between us. “I mean _theoretically_ … Wouldn’t it be amazing?”

He smiled. He was looking at the TV, but I could tell the smile was for me. He thought I was an idealist—I didn’t mind it.

“Imagine if we could go back in time to when it was politically stable…” I turned and put my face in his line of vision. “...and go there together—before we were married…”

An unreadable expression fell over his face. I wished I hadn’t said that word— _married_. We usually agreed not to talk about our partners. I was too far in to stop talking now, though.

“Our lives could have been different....” I suggested.

“Like we could have contracted malaria?” he joked.

“Or I wouldn’t have gotten married at all…” I said. I tried to keep my voice light, but I knew I failed when I heard its lilt—it was _miserable_. “I was counting on you to talk me out of it.”

He scoffed, “I would _never_ have done that.”

I squinted at him, but didn’t say anything. In retrospect, that would have been the perfect time to ask **_why_**. _Why_ wouldn’t he have talked me out of it? What was different about the way he felt about me vs the way I felt about him? _But I didn’t ask_. Instead, we smiled, made jokes, ate room service, and eventually went to sleep—and my precious minutes ticked away, just like they always did.


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair recovers from his visit with Cullen. 15 years ago, we see their first meeting and get some context.
> 
> Note: I'm weaving this story in with some of the others I've written. Most notably, this occurs in the distant future of "Boyish and Brave," and the novel Alistair is writing is "The Proposal." I'd love to hear your comments about these tie-ins. :)

When I arrived at home from these meetings, I had to decompress for a while. Invariably, this made Bella feel rejected. I knew it was a problem, but I didn’t know how else to deal with it. On that particular day, after coming home from Haven, I felt dirty. Cullen had wrecked me all weekend—physically _and_ emotionally.

The pinnacle of the weekend had been a trip to a modern art museum.

“We need to get one these for our house,” I joked. I craned my neck to keep a huge sculpture in view. It was an amorphous shape—made completely of bronze. I was always saying dumb things like this to him--little hints that I wanted something more than this affair.

“That’s the kind of thing Bella would make… remember?” Cullen laughed.

He was referencing a joke from years ago. We all went to college together and our favorite diversions were of the pretentious theoretical type. This particular one began with the prompt, ‘Say what each other person would study in college and which college they would attend in an alternate universe…’. Cullen had said that Bella would study in Minrathous and become a sculptor of modern art. When asked about the art’s meaning, she would talk for two hours, but at the end no one would have a better idea of what she meant than before she started talking. We had all laughed at the time. Now, it didn’t seem appropriate to bring her up.

“Yeah, I remember…” I said. I let my gaze fall to the ground and kicked the dirt with my shoe. “...remember what you said I’d do?” I asked.

Cullen smiled. “Of course… you’d be off saving the world… one obscure disease at a time.”

“And I said you'd be ruling Thedas’ military like your namesake,” I smirked. One of our first conversations had revolved around the fact this we were named after famous Fereldens of the past. He reveled in it while I reviled it.

“As long as you're not the king…” he joked. “I'm not taking orders from you…”

I laughed.

He wound an arm around my waist and I leaned my chin over his shoulder. In an anonymous town, we could be together.

“Maybe I’ll be Austin or Max this weekend…” I joked. “No kings or commanders to live up to…” He laughed. “You can be Chris or Dylan…”

“I don’t know,” smirked Cullen. “I think history makes us who we are…” he said into the skin of my neck.

“You would say that…” I laughed. The whole day was making me feel nostalgic. It made me remember the first time I ever heard his name—his _real_ one.

 

**15 Years Earlier**

**Genitivi University**

The classroom was beginning to fill. For some reason, I was nervous. Being out of the literature department scared me, I guess. Over the last three years, I’d become comfortable in those small classrooms, surrounded by books and the smell of ink. During the first term of my senior year, I needed to take a general education history requirement, though, so I found myself in a huge lecture hall surrounded by freshmen.

I chose a seat in the third row, two seats from the end. It wasn’t where I’d normally sit—in any _normal_ class, I would have been right up front, making a big show of organizing my books. I loved school—I still do. In _this_ subject, though, I didn’t have any real knowledge. I was _interested_ in history, but I couldn’t talk about ancient Thedas with any authority.

I watched the other students file in and set themselves up with passing interest. Mostly, I just wanted to get _through_ this class—I needed an A to keep my 4.0. I’d chosen it because I heard the professor was easy.

“Hello everyone,” said the professor, “You can call me Rhys.” He smiled. Of all the professors I’d seen on campus, he was among the most scholastic-looking. His brown hair fell limply over his forehead and kept brushing past the top rim of his glasses. His button-down sweater had elbow patches. He was a _caricature_ of a person, in my estimation. At that time in my life, I saw everything as a story. I was already writing the story of Rhys in my mind when he called my name in the roll.

“Theirin?” he paused, “ _Alistair_ Theirin?”

“Oh, I’m here,” I stammered, raising my hand.

He rolled his eyes, but smirked. “Quite a _historical_ name you have… you’re in the right class.”

I blushed. People were always making that joke. It was bad enough that my ancient ancestors were Ferelden royalty—did my mother _really_ have to name me Alistair? Throughout high school, I’d gone by my middle name to avoid this awkwardness.

“So…” he began, “Most history classes begin with the First Blight and move forward—I assume that’s what you _thought_ we’d be doing,” he baited the class.

A few scattered students nodded while others pursed their lips, worrying.

“Well, _I_ don’t start there—” he explained, “ _I_ start after the Fifth Blight and work backwards.” He paused, “So, _Alistair_ ,” he looked right at me—out of a sea of hundreds, “you’re going to hear your name a lot.”

The class snickered as I cringed.

He turned suddenly, “Don’t worry, you’re not the only one...” he gestured to a blonde man off to the front of the stadium-style hall, “Right, Cullen?”

I followed his gesture. The man— _Cullen_ —gave Rhys a wry smile.

“Which reminds me,” continued Rhys to the class, “this is Cullen Rutherford—I know, you can all laugh now—” the class laughed on cue. No one wanted to disappoint the teacher on the first day. “He’s _not_ exactly the Commander of the Inquisition, but he _is_ your TA. If you need anything; if you have questions; if you are going to miss class: don’t contact me—contact _him_.” He smiled at Cullen, “He’s a great resource— _use_ him.”

Cullen smiled—a smile that dripped with confidence. I wondered what year he was—I’d never seen him around. Based on his title, he was either a senior or a grad student. I watched him as the class unfolded. He looked highly interested even though he’d probably heard the lecture before.

When the class let out, I gathered my things and headed for the door. Someone tapped my left shoulder.

“Yes?” I asked, turning.

“You’re Alistair, right?” asked Cullen.

“Guilty,” I smirked. “...and you’re Cullen—like the templar or commander or whatever.”

“You’re ready for the _jokes_ , right?” laughed Cullen.

“I _guess_ …” I mumbled. I didn’t know what he meant, though. My expression must have looked blank because he raised an eyebrow at me.

“ _You know_ … because we were _lovers_ …” his top lip curled up over his teeth.

I had no idea what he was talking about. I felt my eyes widening.

He laughed, “ _You know_ … the _real_ Alistair and Cullen…?”

I exhaled and managed a laugh, “oooh… I didn’t know that about them.”

Cullen squinted at me, “you’re _obviously_ not a history major… what are you doing in this class?”

Without meaning to, I’d started walking down the hallway. I realized now that he was following me toward the quad. “I needed it for graduation. It’s one of my last requirements,” I explained. “I’m English Lit.”

“Oh!” Cullen laughed deeply, “so you’re going to try to make up things that are only one third as good as the truth.”

For someone I didn’t know at all, he was pretty sure of himself. We’d just met and he was already critiquing me.

“I wasn’t planning on writing any historical fiction, but I might write about the TA I met on the first day… seems like there’s a story there,” I joked.

He smiled, suddenly shy.

“So are you a grad student?” I asked.

“No,” he smiled again and kept walking next to me. I noticed our feet were hitting the pavement synchronously. “I’m a senior, but I’m planning to graduate a term early and start on my Ph.D. right away.”

“That’s great,” I said. “I’m hoping to get into the post-bacc writing fellowship—maybe as soon as next term.”

He smiled at me, “I guess we’re both over-achievers, then.”

We’d arrived at my dorm before I was ready to stop talking. I paused on the stoop outside. “This is me…” I mumbled.

“Oh,” he looked both ways over my shoulder and suddenly pulled a piece of paper out of his backpack. “Here’s my number, in case you need anything in class… I meant to write it on the board today—I’ll have to do that tomorrow.” He opened the pen cap with his teeth and wrote against his thigh. “You’ll have a leg up, I guess.”

“Thanks,” I said, taking the paper.

“See you around,” he waved and was gone.

Upstairs, I unpacked my things, including the scrap of paper from Cullen.

[617-888-4567. –Your Lover.]

I laughed. He had _confidence_ ; I’d give him that.

* * *

 

**One Week Later**

**Campus Library**

“So are you related to the other Cullen?” I asked, “...the real one?”

Cullen looked up from his textbook. His eyes looked a little glassy—we’d been here for hours. “Not that I know of… it’s just a common name and my parents had a sense of humor.”

“Oh…” I looked back down at my notebook.

Cullen leaned closer to me. His expression was incredulous in my periphery. “Are _you_!?” he asked.

I nodded hesitantly. It was not usually a good thing when people found out about my family line.

“This whole time I’ve been sitting next to royalty!” cackled Cullen. He edged closer to me until I could feel with warmth coming off of his chest. “How closely related are you? Are you in line for the throne?”

“No,” I laughed, “not even close…” That wasn’t strictly true, though. I was 15th or 16th. Far enough away not to worry about it, though. “To make matters worse, I was abandoned by my father when I was young, so I have no real claim anyway... And _no_ , his name wasn’t Maric,” I cut Cullen off before he could go for the obvious joke.

In the week since we met, we’d become quickly inseparable. We’d discovered we enjoyed a lot of the same things and that our girlfriends knew each other. It made getting together easy. Bella and Icis were supposed to meet us in the library soon, actually.

“Okay,” I said, refocusing on my notes, “let’s just run through this business of when the Hero of Ferelden and I went to liberate the circle mages again.” We’d gotten into the habit of acting like _we’d_ done the things our namesakes had. It made it easier for me to remember the stories.

“No, no,” corrected Cullen, “They weren’t going there to _liberate_ the circle mages—that just ended up happening. They went there to get the Grey Warden treaties signed.”

I hung my head, “...and _what_ was the point of that again?”

Cullen sighed. Apparently I was a disappointing student. “They were documents that let the Grey Wardens demand help from certain groups all over Thedas.”

I nodded.

“A couple of them are on loan in the history department for the rest of the semester,” he offered. “We could go look at them… I could sneak you in after hours…” He bit his bottom lip and produced a set of keys from his back pocket.

I wasn’t sure what to make of him. He was always suggesting the _strangest_ things, but when we were together, I felt mischievous and brave. Before I had a chance to answer, Icis was sitting across the table from us.

“Hey guys,” she said, dropping her backpack on the table between them. “What are you working on?”

Cullen smirked at me, “I’m trying to teach the ‘good King of Ferelden’ something about history…”

Icis laughed. She wasn’t a history major either—she studied Economics—but she’d probably heard Cullen talk about his own interests enough to know the gist.

Bella was right behind her. She looked incredibly stressed as she dropped her bag with a thud on the table in front of me.

“Are you okay?” asked Icis.

Bella huffed. “Yeah… I _will_ be… My differential equations professor is just an asshole…”

I started to tune her out whenever she talked about math. That was unfortunate, because as a mathematics major, she talked about math a lot. Icis looked sympathetic, though. The two of them met when Icis had to take a statistics class that Bella was TA-ing. It wasn’t so different from how Cullen and I met, actually. Bella was only a Junior, but she was so far ahead of most of her contemporaries that she had been a TA for two terms already.

“What year are you, Icis?” I asked suddenly. I could never remember.

She laughed—apparently _everyone_ thought my head was full of cotton that day.

“I’m a Sophomore,” she answered, before turning back to Bella, who seemed on the edge of full mental collapse.

It didn’t make sense that Cullen would be dating a sophomore. How had they even met? He’d vaguely mentioned ‘mutual friends’ earlier, but I didn’t think that was satisfactory. The story I was writing in my mind required more details. Maybe she was on her way to class and dropped her entire stack of books. Cullen, ever on the lookout for damsels in distress, could have helped her retrieve them. Maybe it was something more scandalous? Maybe Icis saw him across the quad one day and was struck by his perfectly arranged blonde curls. Maybe she asked around until someone gave her his name and stalked him to the history faculty offices under the guise of being lost. The truth seemed so mundane.

“Yes,” Cullen leaned in, “she’ll still be here next year… only then she’ll be dating a grad student…” He gripped her hand across the table.

Something about the gesture made me wince. It was involuntary. Back then, I’d never entertained the idea of being with him—finding out what he wanted out of life, maybe? But sex—not so much. _Love_? —Never.

 

* * *

 

**Presently**

“Al?” Called Bella from downstairs. I was still avoiding her when she got home from work. The loudness of her voice startled me.

“Yeah?” I walked toward the stairway.

She smiled up at me, “I missed you…”

I swallowed hard.

“Are you hungry?” She asked. “We could go out… Or order something...”

“I'm not hungry…” I cut her off. I couldn't think about eating at a time like this. My stomach was sour and I felt the ghost of Cullen all over my skin—and beneath it.

“Okay…” She dropped her things in the hall and walked up toward me. “Maybe I can whet your appetite…” She smirked and put a palm against my chest. I felt the intensity in that gesture. In these situations, I had learned _not_ to pull away-—that just made everything worse. The best case scenario was actually to make love to her—as passionately as I could muster. It helped to ease the transition between Cullen and reality, despite how morally reprehensible it was.

Tonight, I wasn’t sure I could manage it. “Bella, I’m really tired…”

She scowled at me. “Well, you don’t have to _do_ much…” she joked. Her hand found its way into my pants.

Predictably, I was already getting hard—my body didn’t know it was supposed rebuff her advances. Besides, wasn’t this the normal way people were supposed to make love? Protrusion into wanting vacuum? One phallus and one cavern? I rolled the words around in my mouth—my novel was writing itself in those days.

My _novel_ was another point of contention. Since taking over the media outlet, I hadn’t done _any_ writing. Ironically, being the editor of a major newspaper didn’t allow me to actually _write_ anything. Instead, I dealt with shareholders and had meetings and yelled at journalists. I didn’t create _anything_ —especially fiction.

In the recesses of my mind, though, I had my novel. It was about a man who was secretly in love with his best friend. Admittedly, it was somewhat autobiographical.

The friend announces he’s getting married, which makes the main character snap. He realizes—suddenly—that he needs to come clean about his feelings. He tells the friend he’s in love with him shortly before the friend’s wedding. They get into a car accident before the friend can say anything. They spend the next ten years hating each other and dealing with the fact that they never had a real relationship… and then… _something_ happens—something I hadn’t named yet. But I knew it would be something big—something life changing. That was the part that I couldn’t see.

Unlike _my_ Cullen situation, the main character in my book would be strong enough to leave his wife. He would _embrace_ the fact that he was bisexual—maybe pansexual—and live his life. The friend would eventually see the light somehow—I wasn’t sure about those details yet. And the character who was _me_ would be vindicated.

While I was considering my story’s main character, my hands had wandered under Bella’s shirt. It was a habit, but I found my palms firmly cupping her breasts. A throaty moan in my ear was what brought me back to the present.

“Let’s get out of the hallway,” whispered Bella.

Suddenly aware that it was time to perform, I picked her up and carried her toward our bedroom.

 

* * *

 

“I love you,” breathed Bella an hour later. She was staring up at the ceiling, barely keeping her eyes open. A thin sheen of sweat was glinting between her breasts. She was absolutely beautiful like this. It made the fact that I’d had sex with Cullen less than 12 hours earlier even more despicable.

“I love you too,” I said. It wasn’t a lie _per se_ , but my jaw still tightened around the words.

She turned her head to face me and smiled. “Hey—how was Cullen, by the way?” she asked.

My mouth went dry. The next three seconds felt like an hour. I tried to discern her meaning while thinking of some way to explain—to apologize.

“—you _saw_ him, right? Icis said he was in Haven... for a conference?” continued Bella nonchalantly.

I tried not to let the relief show on my face as I cleared my throat. “Yeah… he was kind of busy, but we got together for drinks last night,” I lied.

“That’s great. It’s been so long since we saw them…” mused Bella. She rolled into my side and tucked her face into the space between my neck and shoulder.

I wrapped my arms around her and kissed the top of her head.

“...that’s why Icis and I planned something,” she said suddenly.

I tensed, “what did you plan?”

“It’s a sort of surprise…” she laughed, “...for Cullen’s birthday next month. We’re going to fly out and show up at their house...”

I suppressed a gasp. The thought of sitting across a table from Cullen, holding Bella’s hand and making polite conversation made my skin crawl. Even _worse_ —watching him kiss Icis and smile at her dotingly. A lump formed in the back of my throat.

“So… do you think he’ll like it?” asked Bella.

“Yeah…” I swallowed, “I’m sure he will.”


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair and Bella visit Cullen and Icis' house and discover something surprising. Alistair remembers the day he realized he was in love with Cullen.

“This is their house?” I asked.

“I guess so…” said Bella. The way she was driving made it seem like she wanted to do this as little as I did. She turned into their driveway with a hesitance I had rarely seen.

The house was austere. Its lawn was expertly appointed. A gardener was presently tending to a line of crepe myrtles—pink blooms throughout. It seemed odd that Cullen would live here. His taste was a bit more understated—I remembered rearranging the furniture of his first off-campus apartment fifteen times before he was happy with it. Each piece was a hand-me-down.

“Well, let’s go surprise him,” said Bella. She smiled at me across the car and squeezed my hand.

I forced a smile, “I’m sure he’ll be really excited…” I paused, “As soon as he gets over the shock of turning 36… I hear that’s worse than 35… the ‘late thirties’ and whatnot.”

Bella laughed as she turned the key back in the ignition. I felt the engine stop in a way I wouldn’t have usually. As if my heart was going to stop with it.

“Hi!” shrieked Icis from the doorway. Her silver blonde hair was coiled onto her head in a positively feminine way. She peeked around the slightly open front door—her eyes darted from Bella to me and back again. I wanted to love her—she was _wonderful_ —but I hated her instead. More than that, I hated myself for having an affair with her husband. And _most_ of all, I hated Cullen for never leaving her. I hated him for never loving me enough.

 

* * *

 

**14 Years Ago**

“So? Are you ready?” asked Cullen.

“I think so,” I mumbled. I was clumsily trying to fix my tie into place beneath my cap and gown. This was a big day—Cullen and I were graduating a semester early. We had both managed to do it.

“Are you parents here?” Cullen asked.

“No…” I didn’t feel like elaborating. My family situation was a bit confusing. At that time in my life, I also found it embarrassing.

“What do you mean?” asked Cullen. He was looking at my reflection in the mirror.

“My mom and I have a complex relationship,” I said tersely.

“And what about your dad?” asked Cullen. He had taken several steps forward. He was still looking at me in the mirror, but I could feel his breath on the back of my neck. It threw me off; my tie proved difficult to handle.

He sighed at me. “Can I _help_ you with that?” He turned me by the shoulders and smiled at me imperiously. He always acted like he knew how to do _life_ better than I did. I acquiesced anyway.

“You don’t need to have family here,” he said seriously.

I wasn’t sure that meant. I squinted up at him.

“Listen… we’re _close_ … right?” he asked. His eyebrow quirked.

“Yeah…” I mumbled.

“So we’re brothers?” he smiled.

I made a sour face—that _wasn’t_ the relationship I strived for with him.

“Or… something else?” He laughed, “but something _close_ , right?” He’d finished my tie, but his hands rested gently across my collar.

“Right…” I agreed. I wasn’t sure what he wanted me to say—what was _safe_ to say.

“So you don’t need to have a family here—I’m here,” he concluded. He dropped his hands and I felt the loss of warmth from his palms in a way I didn’t anticipate.

“Cullen!” called Icis. She was suddenly in the doorway of my dorm room. The closer Cullen and I got the more Bella and Icis stopped by at random. The four of us were friends—we really liked each other. At the time, I thought I really liked Icis too—I tried to. But the feelings I wouldn’t acknowledge—the ones that were full and painful and real and raw would never really lie dormant. Cullen was a reality in my life—whether I wanted to admit it or not.

“You two are looking lovely today,” smirked Cullen. He reached out for Icis and pulled her flush against his chest when she got near. I averted my eyes instinctively.

“Are you ready, Al?” asked Bella. She smiled at me and fiddled with the cuff of my shirt.

“Just about…” I mumbled. Over her shoulder, I watched Cullen trail a fingertip along the edge of Icis’ jaw.

“Well, we had better get going,” said Bella. She turned back toward Icis and hooked their arms. “We’ll be right in the front.”

           

* * *

 

Cullen and I walked in silence across the quad to the graduation tent. I kept catching the front edge of my shoes on tufts of grass—they were new and I hadn’t broken them in.

“So…” said Cullen.

I flinched at the sound of his voice.

“What are you planning for after graduation?” asked Cullen.

“What do you mean?” I asked. Cullen knew very well I was going to start the post-bacc writing program and eventually write ‘the great Ferelden novel’.

“...about Bella…” added Cullen.

“Oh.” I hadn’t been prepared for that question.

Cullen side-eyed me—a smirk lurking behind his eyes.

“It’s not like I haven’t _thought_ about it…” I plunged my hands into my pockets and shrugged. “I’m just really focused on my fiction right now…”

“That seems like a cop out,” said Cullen.

“Well what are _you_ going to do?” The question was a diversion tactic, but he made a face that told me it worked.

“I’m going to ask her…” he paused while he dug into his left pocket and produced a small box. “...to marry me.”

The weather was _beautiful_ on that particular day—not a cloud in the sky, a warm breeze rustling the leaves on every mature oak and evergreen—but I was suddenly freezing. My teeth began to chatter. I put my palm over my jaw and tried to still it. It was at that moment—that exact _second—_ that I realized I was in love with him. Picturing him marrying someone else— _even Icis:_ one of the sweetest people I knew—made me feel ill.

“So…?” he probed. “What do you think?”

“You’re awfully young,” I blurted.

“Well,” he laughed a little, “I didn’t mean we’d get married _today_ … I was picturing a two or three year engagement…”

The words rattled around painfully between my ears—married, engagement.

“...but I think she’s the one…” he continued.

I sucked in a slow breath through my nose and tried to keep the ground ahead of me in focus.

“Well, I guess it’s the right choice for you, then,” I managed.

Cullen smiled. “Thanks… you’re definitely going to be my best man.” He pushed his shoulder against mine and smirked.

I couldn’t think of anything I’d like _less_.

 

* * *

 

**Presently**

As soon as Icis opened the door _fully_ that same sick feeling from the quad crept across my chest—she was at least six months pregnant.

“Maker, Icis!” shouted Bella. “Why didn’t you _tell_ me?!” She opened her arms wide and pulled Icis into the tightest of hugs. “Al!” she slid a hand onto Icis’ abdomen and turned to look at me. “Did _you_ know about this?”

My tongue suddenly felt inoperable—like a huge, wet sponge filling my mouth from edge to edge. I coughed meagerly. “I didn’t…”

“That is _so_ like him…” said Icis. “He’s always loved to surprise people…” She looked down the driveway expectantly and rubbed her stomach—as if she could _see_ Cullen coming up the walk pushing a carriage or playing catch in the yard. I could see it too.

“Well,” Icis put one hand on each of our shoulders, “this is _our_ chance to do the surprising…” She waved for us to follow her into the house.

The floor in the entryway was tiled in travertine. A rod iron railing curved up a staircase at least twenty feet high. The air smelled like freshly cut flowers. It was the most beautiful place I’d ever hated being.

To my right, I noticed a slightly open door. On the other side, I glimpsed the corner of a heavy wooden desk.

“That’s his study,” said Icis.

I looked back toward her. I could feel a guilty blush crossing my cheeks. “Oh…”

“You can go look around—I’m sure he won’t mind,” she said.

I nodded and ducked inside. The walls were covered in historical maps—the Anderfels, Orlais, and Ferelden were handpainted and labeled in calligraphy. To take in the room, I sat in Cullen’s chair. It vaguely smelled like him—earthy, yet floral. I would see him in a matter of minutes—for the second time that month. I wasn’t sure how I’d feel. I had begun to picture it when Bella poked her head into the room.

“Icis says Cullen’s right around the corner,” she said, “come hide with me.” She giggled. It was adorable, but my stomach was in knots.

In the living room, the three of us ducked behind an overstuffed leather armchair. It had rivets all along its sides—I guessed it was very old: a piece Cullen saw in some antique store and _had_ to have.

“Ouch,” said Icis, as she crouched. She put a palm along the underside of her stomach.

“Are you okay?” asked Bella.

“Yeah,” Icis smiled, “I’m fine… I’m just not used to carrying around all this extra weight in front.”

I cringed.

The door opened a second later. The three of us stared at each other as we listened to Cullen drop his keys on a table, take off his shoes, and hang up his coat. I didn’t even breathe.

Bella and Icis nodded in tandem. That was our cue.

“Surprise!” we all yelled. Truthfully, I _mouthed_ it—barely a whisper actually escaped into the air. I doubted Cullen would find this any more pleasant than I did.

Cullen clutched his chest and his mouth dropped open as he took us in. His expression changed from shock to horror to calculated, measured happiness while I watched. I wondered if Bella and Icis could tell what he was thinking—it wasn’t very sneaky.

When Cullen’s eyes landed on me, he stifled something that looked like _disdain_.

“What on earth are you two doing here?” he asked. As he did, he opened his arms toward Bella and pulled her into a hug. Over her shoulder he glanced at Icis. “Did you set this up, Love?” The endearment felt like ice on the back of my neck. He smiled and laughed like he hadn’t a care in the world.

When he let Bella go, he turned toward me and extended his right hand. “Nice to see you, Al… how have you been?”

I almost _laughed—_ the formality of a handshake was an over-correction, in my opinion. I thought it drew _more_ attention to the space between us than hugging me would have. But I was biased—I _wanted_ to hug him.

“I’m good,” I took his forearm and gripped it. “Happy birthday, buddy.”

He quirked an eyebrow at me almost imperceptibly before dropping my hand. I watched his forearm wind behind Icis’ back. I hoped I wasn’t sweating.

“Well,” said Icis, “I have more plans for all of us tonight… I just have a few things to get together before we settle in.” She started toward the kitchen.

“I’ll help you,” said Bella.

“Let me show you my study,” said Cullen—a bit louder than was necessary. It was for show.

When we were alone, with the door closed, Cullen’s demeanor changed. “What were you _thinking_ coming here?” His voice was sharp, but quiet.

“I didn’t have much of a choice—Bella and Icis are friends, you know… they still talk sometimes,” I explained.

Cullen scoffed and ran a hand through his hair. “I bet you didn’t argue…”

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?” I took two steps forward. He retreated from me, backing into the edge of his desk.

“Nothing…” He rolled his eyes.

I was angry now. The implication was, clearly, that I was more into him than he was into me. I know now that it was _true—_ but back then it seemed cruel to even make that inference.

“I don’t think you’re in a position to be angry at _me_ ,” I said darkly.

He squinted at me.

I widened my eyes and gestured toward the door, “Icis is fucking _pregnant_. When were you going to mention _that_?” I nearly yelled.

He put a finger across his lips, “Shhh! They are right around the corner!” he whispered.

I was too angry to be shushed. “I don’t know how much longer I can take this,” I said.

“Me neither,” he said cooly.

My breath caught. “ _What_?”

“You’re _right—_ we can’t do this anymore,” he said. His face was _still—_ not a hint of pain or guilt or even _sympathy_.

“Cullen…” I started toward him, but he pulled his arm out of my grasp and walked toward the door. When his hand encircled the brass knob, he paused. “Alistair—this has been a long time coming. I just didn’t know how to deal with it, so I didn’t say anything… but… it’s _over_.” He opened the door and walked through it.

My feet wouldn’t move to follow him. I was simultaneously sinking into the ground and floating to some high corner of the room. I just watched the love of my life walk out on me and now I had to have dinner with him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is looking pretty bleak, right? There's more darkness to come... but there's sweetness too... stay tuned. :)


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dinner party from hell. Alistair blows everything up.

The feeling of running a red light: _worry_ , a tinge of embarrassment. Look both ways: did anyone see? I’m safe— _elation_. Having my affair with Cullen felt like that at first. Like I crossed the intersection at the last possible second—I watched the light turn from yellow to red and laughed as the wind whipped through my hair.

The problem with breaking rules—traffic violations or otherwise—is that the shock wears off eventually. It gets progressively easier to break the same rule again or to break others.

By the time I found out Icis was pregnant I was so far gone, I felt _insulted_ —as if Cullen was mine to give. As if I’d ever been _anything_ to him. I had broken so many rules of life that I felt entitled to him. I thought I was justified. So when I left the study to join him at dinner, I was indignant.

At the table, Icis, Bella, and Cullen were laughing and smiling at each other. Bella and Icis had elected to sit next to each other, which left the seat next to Cullen open. I slid into it, taking extra care not to touch him.

“So, Al,” said Icis, pouring me a glass of wine, “what have you been up to?”

I wanted to scream, “ _fucking_ your husband for the last three years!” but of course, I didn't.

“Oh, just managing the newspaper… It's more work than I ever anticipated,” I smiled—dim and vacuous.

“That's a bit of an oversimplification,” interjected Bella. “Al has been _revolutionizing_ that place…” She beamed with pride.

Cullen made a face. I caught it in the extreme right edge of my field of vision.

“What?” I turned to face him.

“Oh, nothing,” he sneered and sipped from the edge of his wine glass.

“No… _Tell me_ ,” I said seriously. I could feel my temper getting away from me. The back of my neck was hot.

“Oh, Al… It's nothing…” said Cullen dismissively.

The tension between us was palpable. This conversation had gone from polite and friendly to contentious and hostile in two sentences and one smirk.

“It's okay, Al…” said Icis soothingly, “Cullen's just teasing you…”

“ _No_ , Icis… I don't think he was,” I said. My voice sounded foreign even as it passed my lips. I was so angry I wasn't myself.

Cullen looked at me—long and hard. The scar on his upper lip twitched before he spoke. It was a look i had seen on him a lot—every time we had sex. It was the look of _dominating_ me. He was about to say something _horrible_.

“I'm just _surprised_ … That's all…” said Cullen, finally. His eyes were locked on mine--he didn't even blink.

“What do you mean?” I asked. Truthfully, I was scared of the answer.

“I thought you'd be _writing_ —I thought you considered this type of work selling out, but I guess not everyone has the _talent_ for that sort of thing—smart to have a fallback,” he cooed. His voice was velvety.

My eyes threatened to tear. I felt a vein in my neck pulse.

 

* * *

 

**A few weeks earlier**

“Are you happy, Al?” asked Cullen.

We'd been awake talking all night. Outside the window, the sun was just beginning to crest over snow capped mountains.

“Right _now_?” I smiled at him. He was curled into my chest—his head resting gently against me. I kissed the top of his head. “This might be the happiest I've ever been…”

He rolled over me and propped himself up on an elbow so we were face to face. “I mean in your life.”

“Oh,” I paused. I had an _idea_ of what he meant—I hoped I did, anyway. I hoped, in the recesses of my mind, that this was the conversation of how we would _move on_ together. How we would leave our wives and start a new life. I trembled internally.

“I mean… With your work.. Your ambitions… Are you _fulfilled_?” he continued.

“No,” I answered flatly. “To be honest, I think journalists are vultures and the people who edit their drivel are even worse…”

Cullen looked at me pityingly. “What's worse than a vulture?” He smiled, tracing a line along my clavicle.

“A buzzard, maybe?” I joked. “They can't even fly…”

He laughed and kissed me. His lips were soft, lazy, comforting. I wanted to stay in this bed with him forever. I hoped beyond hope that this conversation was the _preamble_ that would make that future possible.

“What do you _wish_ you were doing?” he asked. He was still so close to my face that our lips brushed as he spoke.

“Writing… You know that…” I mumbled. “My novel is half way done, actually… I just can't seem to _finish_ it…”

“What is it about?” He asked.

I didn't want to answer that. It was about _him_ , primarily. But I did anyway. I wanted to be honest with him, even if I wasn't brave enough to come out and tell to leave his wife.

“It's about a guy who is secretly in love with his best friend….” I said sheepishly.

Cullen smiled, “let me guess… The friend is devilishly attractive--blonde curls, light brown eyes.”

“Something like that…” I kissed him again.

“Is it a novel or a biography?” laughed Cullen.

“They’re _not_ having an affair,” I said seriously. “The red-haired one breaks up with his wife—he’s pretty brave, actually.”

Cullen nodded nonsensically. I wasn’t sure what the gesture meant, so I let it pass and continued with my thought.

“I always thought I would be one of those people who doesn’t care about money or stability…” I rubbed the nape of his neck and looked out the window over his shoulder. “I thought I'd be traveling the world by motorcycle, with a typewriter. I'm a _complete_ sellout—wife, house, dog, suburbia…”

“You're not a sellout. You're the _bravest_ person I know,” said Cullen. His face was serious—no smirk in sight. I had rarely seen him so grave. “If I were _half_ the man you were, we'd be living here—together.” His eyes looked sad—almost glassy.

“What do you mean?” I leaned into his face, forcing eye contact.

He didn't say anything for a long time. We just lied there staring at each other in the dawn light, breathing the same air.

Finally, he broke our connection and sat up. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and planted his feet on the carpet. “You _are_ going to write that novel, Al,” he said, “and it's going to be _great_ … That's all I meant.”

I wanted to argue, but his tone told me this wasn't the time. Besides, we were going home soon. My time was almost up.

 

* * *

 

**Presently**

Now, being confronted with those venomous words—private words he’d stolen from our bed and regurgitated to hurt me—I was _furious_. And in that moment, I didn’t think I had anything to lose. I _wasn’t_ thinking, really—not about myself, not about Icis, and _certainly_ not about Bella. All I could think about was Cullen. I wanted to grab him and cry into the fabric of his shirt. But _more_ than that, I wanted to hit him— _hurt_ him in some way deeper than I’d ever hurt another person. So that’s what I did.

“It’s funny, Cullen…” I began quietly, “that isn’t what you said in Haven…”

I paused. His face was decidedly neutral, but I saw something flicker behind his eyes.

“...I seem to remember you telling me you _knew_ I’d write a novel and that it would be great…” I paused again. His face still hadn’t changed. “But I can’t remember if that was before or after your second orgasm—so maybe you were in a post-coital euphoria.”

The color drained from his face. Everyone at the table was _absolutely_ still—except me: I was _unhinged_.

“I mean… you _could_ have been lying, but we’d already had sex a few times—it isn’t as if you were trying to get into my pants…” I laughed a little hysterically, “...not that I was wearing any.”

I still hadn’t looked away from Cullen’s face. Beads of sweat were forming across his brow. He looked like he was losing the battle with remaining conscious.

Icis was the first to speak. “ _Cullen_?” His name quivered across her lips. “What is going on?”

The fact that she didn’t throw her wine in my face is a credit to how good of a person Icis is. Even in what might have been the most painful and confusing moment of her life, she had the wherewithal to see that I _wasn’t_ the instigator of this situation—that I was only a _symptom_ of the fact that her husband was a lying, cheating, dirt bag. Of course, I was _also_ a lying, cheating, dirt bag—but that was only in reference to Bella.

In the silence that followed, Cullen opened and closed his mouth a few times. I was starting to de-realize, so I imagined him as a giant grouper, floating through a quiet ocean.

When Cullen didn't answer her question, Icis turned to Bella. She had tears in her eyes. “Can you get me out of here?” she whispered.

Bella nodded. Neither of them would look at me as they left.

I sat, absolutely paralyzed, until I heard them leave the driveway.

“Nice work, Al,” said Cullen, finally.

It took me a minute to discern if that sentence was real or imagined. I was on the verge of dissociating.

“...not _only_ have you destroyed my life,” continued Cullen, “which was obviously your goal…” He stood and began to pace. “But you've managed to ruin your _own_ life too.” He clapped three _slow_ times. “ _Bravo_.”

“Did you _ever_ love me?” I asked. It seemed like a non sequitur, but in reality, it was the crux of this whole thing. I needed to know.

Cullen scoffed. He was so angry his cheeks were flushed.

“Even a _little_?” I asked again.

“Alistair, you just destroyed _everything_ ,” said Cullen indignantly. “How can you ask me that?”

I stood and crossed to him. I grabbed the edge of his jaw with my palm and forced him to look at me. “ _My_ life was ruined the minute we started this affair,” I said.

 

 

* * *

 

 

There was a period after I finished the writing program that I didn't speak to Cullen. It didn't _seem_ intentional—it _appeared_ as if we had just drifted apart after college. After all, we'd moved to cities on opposite ends of Ferelden. There was even a semester where he studied in the Free Marches. It _looked_ like we just lost track of each other.

But we hadn't.

I had engineered the whole thing to avoid his wedding. By the time he and Icis actually got married, we hadn't spoken in a year. So despite his offer of best-man-hood, I wasn't invited.

Months turned into years—soon, more than half a decade had passed. I started to forget him. It was a _relief_ in a lot of ways. Secret love has a way of eating away at a person. Eventually, Bella and I got married and our relationship _blossomed_ without the constant, nagging, ache that Cullen provided.

Of course, I could never really stop thinking about him _completely_. Bella and Icis were still friends—they didn't _see_ each other, but they talked from time to time. I'd hear the updates on Cullen's research or how he had been given tenure over dinner. Bella mentioned these details in passing, but it took me a day or two to recover each time.

We had never been _anything_ to each other. I think that was almost _worse_. I was left wondering what could have been—the sense of loss immutable. But on the whole, I was fine. I had the paper to run and I was carving out a life for myself. I was _surviving_.

Until _that_ day.

 

* * *

 

**3 years ago**

I walked into the bookstore on a whim. I was on a business trip—wooing investors—in Redcliffe. Everything went so smoothly that I had a whole day to myself before my return flight. Of course, I found myself among books. I spent an hour in the new fiction section, paging through novels and memoirs. Eventually—having chosen a few favorites—I needed a place to sit down. I turned the corner into the history section and spotted a seat at the far end of the aisle. En route, I nearly ran into a blonde man, wearing a tweed coat and glasses.

“Sorry,” I said, sidestepping him.

“Maker... _Al_?” He put a hand on my shoulder, “is that you?”

“Cullen?” My mouth was a little dry. I set the books down next to me.

“It's so great to see you,” said Cullen. He opened his arms and pulled me in for a hug. When he let me go, he was smiling broadly. “What are you doing here?” He asked.

 

We spent the next several hours talking. We began in a coffee shop and ended up in a bar.

“So it sounds like you ended up with everything you ever wanted,” I said, after my fourth drink.

“It _sounds_ like that,” said Cullen. He was speaking into the hollow of his glass. He swallowed the remaining beer and nodded to the bartender for another.

“That sounds _mysterious_ ,” I said playfully. I was just on the edge of drunk—uninhibited enough to think Cullen's mood was an invitation for a joke.

He turned to look up at me. “I _often_ think about you, you know.”

My smile disappeared instantly. It was replaced by what I imagine to be an expression of horror. My stomach filled with butterflies.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I just... hope you're doing well… That's all.”

 _That_ was when everything changed. As he finished his sentence, he let his palm _fall_ —directly onto my knee. At first, I thought it was a mistake—an errant gesture as a result of his current level of intoxication—but when he gripped the thigh and rubbed his thumb in tiny circles, I _knew_ : it was no mistake.

“Is your hotel _far_?” he asked quietly.

I shook my head. It was right around the corner, in fact.

Cullen paid the bill and had his coat on before I had even collected my thoughts. On the way out the door, he grabbed my hand. I knew I was in over my head, but I couldn't seem to stop it—frankly, I didn't _want_ to.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was super cathartic for me. I have never been in a situation to blow everything to shit like this... but doesn't it seem like the right thing to do? :)


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Alistair's complete breakdown at the dinner party. Lots of sex in this chapter... but it's all kind of sad. :(

**3 Years Ago**

A few hours later, I was in the shower. My skin felt different. I let the water run over the top of my head and pool at my feet. I wasn’t really _washing_ anything—I was just _standing_. I jumped when I heard the bathroom door whine open.

“Al?” asked Cullen, “are you okay?”

“Uh…” I grabbed the soap and frantically started wiping it across my chest, “I’m fine… just finishing up…”

Cullen opened the glass shower door ajar and stuck his head in. “Need any help?” he asked.

I swallowed down a lump of nervous bile and nodded sheepishly.

He smiled and stepped in next to me. His handprint on the inside of the glass almost immediately filled in—the water was painfully hot.

He stepped under the showerhead and let his curls get soaked first. I noticed the way they stuck to his neck is spots. It was the sort of thing I would have noticed in the past—if we got caught in the rain or we finished a hard run, covered in sweat. But _today_ I could do something about it. I reached for him. My hand slid around his waist and I let my chest sit flush against his back as I found his neck with my lips. I kissed each expanse of skin between curls and nuzzled my nose into the crook of his neck. He smelled like soap and rain and everything good I’d ever smelled in my life. I was lost already.

He turned his head and smirked at me. “Don’t you have a plane to catch?” he asked. His voice tinged with a dare.

I shrugged, “I have time for you…”

He caught my top lip between his teeth and sucked it.

My hands settled on either side of his hips as he turned to face me straight on.

I am sure—to this day—that I have _never_ been as turned on as I was in that moment. It was like my body was on fire and my veins were full of caffeine. I tried to still the shaking, but I felt myself vibrating against him.

He trailed his fingertips across my chest and down my abdomen. I shuddered when he gripped me. We’d just finishing having sex for the first time an hour earlier, but I wanted him _again_ —I wanted him _indefinitely_.

And it was dangerous—even in the heat of the moment, I knew that. I knew that I couldn’t _have_ him...not _really_. As I stood there, warm water beading on my skin, receiving one of the most influential hand jobs of my life, a switch flipped. I decided that this was going to be an affair— _not_ just a one-night-stand.

With that in mind, I grabbed him and pushed him backward into the shower wall. His eyes snapped up to mine and that scar on his upper lip pulled taught. He liked it; he liked _me_ ; I could tell.

 

* * *

 

**Presently**

“Cullen?” I still had his jaw trapped in my hand. It was harder than I’d ever grabbed him—even in our more tumultuous nights together. It was the physical embodiment of how much he’d hurt me.

He raised an eyebrow and tried to shake his head free.

“Wait,” I said. My other hand found purchase along his hip and I pulled him toward me. “ _Answer_ me.”

His lips parted slightly, but he didn’t say anything.

“Answer me!” I repeated. I _had_ to know—had he _ever_ loved me? My grip on his side tightened. I felt him lean away from me antalgically.

“I _did_ ,” he whispered. His mouth barely opened an inch—as if the words were escaping through a vice.

I felt my own chest deflate. The past tense hurt. “Then _why_?”

“I’m having a daughter,” he said quietly.

I dropped my hands to my sides and backed up. It was involuntary—a guttural reaction that matched the pain in my gut.

“So we can’t do this…” said Cullen. He swallowed audibly. “...no matter what I _want_.”

I was incensed. “You actually think you’re going to be able to _salvage_ this with Icis?” I scoffed.

Anger flickered anew in his eyes. “I have no idea—I have _you_ to thank for that.”

“ _Cullen_ ,” I said softly—a whimper. “I _love_ you, please don’t do this.”

 

* * *

 

What an _idiot_ I was at 35. Just old enough to think I knew _everything_ when, in fact, I knew nothing. In what _universe_ would a person choose a lover over a potential child? Of course, I didn’t see it that way. I imagined some idyllic scenario where we raised this daughter of his together. Where Icis and Bella bid us farewell. Where we were all _friends_ , attending her birthdays, soccer games, and dance recitals. Where she had _four_ parents instead of just two.

As I stood there in his beautiful kitchen, _seething_ , I saw an entire _life_ unfold in my mind’s eye. It was _beautiful_ and sweet and full of _love_ like neither of us had ever known. It was a complete fantasy—rooted in _nothing_.

“I can’t choose you,” said Cullen stiffly. His voice was steady—there was nothing to grab onto; nothing to argue with.

I closed my eyes and staggered backward into the edge of the island counter. It was like finding out everything I ever believed was a lie all at once and magnified by an incredible sense of embarrassment. My soul seemed to  be spilling out onto the floor between us—an amorphous blob of blood and bile.

“I have to get out of here,” I managed.

Cullen looked at me with _disdain_. Not even a hint of an argument.

I walked stiffly toward the exit, grabbing my coat on my way. When I opened the front door, I discovered my car was gone. Bella had apparently taken it in her escape with Icis. _Great_. I was now left with a choice—go back into the kitchen and deal with Cullen or stay out here and wait for Bella to come back. Neither was appealing—they both included vast amounts of emotional work and assured misery. So I just _stood there_ in the doorway—paralyzed by indecision and agony—and waited for _time_ to choose for me.

I slid down the door jam and sat on the stoop in a heap of clothing and bad posture. I felt like the world was too heavy to remain upright. The sun had set recently and the air was colder than when we’d arrived. I tried to take deep breaths, but my chest wouldn’t expand to accommodate it. The love of my life was _gone_ —just two rooms away, but an insurmountable distance. I closed my eyes and let my head fall into my palms.

Just then, a hand gripped my shoulder. I looked up.

“Yeah?” I asked. Cullen was looking down at me with quiet intensity.

He didn’t say anything, but he grabbed me under the arm and pulled me upright. We stared at each other for longer than I was comfortable with.

I had nothing left to lose— _everything_ was ruined. What was the harm? I grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him into a bruising kiss. I expected him to pull away—to kick me in the nuts or at least punch me—but he didn’t. His hands wrapped around my waist and crawled up my shirt to the widest part of my back.

He grabbed my hand and led me through the foyer to his study. Inside, he anchored himself against the perfectly organized desk and pulled me against his chest. It was a weaker position than I was used to seeing him in, but it seemed appropriate—he _was_ in a weak position. I had just _told_ his wife he was having an affair. The reality of what had just transpired in the kitchen was suddenly hitting me and I couldn’t breathe.

I had to quiet the noise in my head. I refocused my vision into Cullen’s eyes and pushed against him hard. I ripped his shirt off and bit into the skin of his neck while my fingers worked on his belt. I wasn’t giving him a choice—he was _going to_ love me. Somehow—we’d make this _work_.

“Take your pants off,” he whispered to me. His voice quivered urgently.

I unbuttoned them and kicked them into a corner of the room. He backed up to sit on the desk, sending pens and papers flying everywhere. He’d finished the task of freeing himself from the confines of his boxers.

I stared at him breathlessly, “What are we _doing_ here?” I asked.

“Shhh,” he shook his head dismissively and reached for me.

I should have _known_ it was a mistake; I should have realized that Bella and Icis wouldn’t have gone far; I should have just _stopped_. But I didn’t. This whole day sticks out in my memory as a long series of errors.

I grabbed him around the waist and pressed our, now bare, chests together. My thighs wedged between his knees on the edge of the desk and I instinctively thrust toward him. I watched a thin line of liquid trail along the inside of his thigh where I touched him. The pain that permeated every nerve ending in my body only made me want him more.

I pushed him backward against the desk, sending more items skittering across the hardwood floor. Between us, Cullen slid a ring of finger and thumb—capturing me in tense pressure. I pushed into him harder, grinding our cocks together. It _could_ have hurt—it _did_ a little—but I needed that pain. The only way to erase the emotional anguish was to experience _this_ one.

His tongue found its way beyond my teeth and was suddenly everywhere and nowhere—filling my mouth with the taste of recently swallowed wine and that morning’s toothpaste in equal measure. It didn’t even taste _good_ , but I relished it.

I strained against him, now fully resting my weight on him and the desk. I managed to avoid crushing him by anchoring one knee next to his hip.

“I want you so much,” he whispered. Those words hurt too—they hurt because even in the blind rapture of that moment, I couldn’t separate myself from the fact that he _wasn’t_ mine. I could _never_ really have him—and I _knew_ it, just as strongly as I had in that shower three years ago.

I captured his bottom lip between my own just to stop his speech. I didn’t want to hear another fucking word—not one more _lie_.

 _That’s_ when he did it—said the thing I’d been _waiting_ for. The _one_ thing that could completely undo me.

“Alistair, I _love_ you,” he whimpered.

I stopped moving instantly—suspended above him, only an inch from his face. My heart shattered and reformed three times before I managed to swallow or breathe or even _think_ about responding. A tear fell from my eye to his cheek before I _realized_ I was crying.

Then the front door opened. I scrambled to get off of him—to find my clothes—but it was already too late.


	7. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it--absolute rock bottom. I promise, things will get better from here.

**3 Weeks Earlier - Rendezvous in Haven**

“Fuck _yes_ ,” I breathed. Cullen’s tongue was running circles around the head of my cock. He’d been doing it for what _felt_ like hours, although it was probably only a few minutes. Either way, it was long enough that I’d had to stave off coming three times already.

He sucked me deeply into his mouth and laughed at the same time. It send a shiver down my spine. I picked my head up off the pillows and looked at him. He was smiling as broadly as he could be in his current position. The expression made an errant tooth graze me—the pain of it was almost good.

He let me go with a ‘pop’ and I almost cried out from the loss of suction, but he was lying atop me a second later, gently rocking.

“You were really close,” he smirked.

“Don’t poke fun,” I laughed. “You’re very good at that…”

He smiled and kissed me. As his tongue slid past my lips, I found myself grinding up toward him. The skin of his abdomen was so soft—in direct contrast to the straining of our cocks against it. In general, I liked to avoid coming this way, although it had happened over the years. Sometimes, he rutted against me enough that we both came _together_ —a sticky, slimy mess between us. But in general, I liked to be inside _something_. Strangely enough, I didn’t really know what his preference was.

“How do you _like_ to come?” I asked suddenly.

He raised an eyebrow, but kept rolling his hips into me. “Inside you,” he whispered.

“Where?”

“Anywhere you’ll let me…” he kissed me again, deeper than before.

At that point, he’d never actually come inside me… not _inside_ -inside. We were very serious about safe sex. But I felt really safe with him. I was convinced he wouldn’t have sex with me with an STD. I _trusted_ him. So I said, “would you _like_ to?”

His eyes widened and his nostrils flared at the suggestion. He nodded fervently.

I bit my lip and kissed him again before rolling onto my stomach. I heard him reach for a bottle of something and uncap it. A moment later, he was pushing against me. With the addition of whatever that _stuff_ was and without latex in the way, he opened me easily.

I tried to relax by exhaling, but a loud groan escaped with it.

He laughed, “should I take that as encouragement?”

“Fuck,” I breathed.

He leaned over me to whisper into my ear, “you have a very dirty mouth when I’m inside you…”

I turned my cheek and nuzzled into his hair. “You bring out the _worst_ in me.”

He laughed again and straightened.

Our sex was often like this—full of laughter. It was one of the things I liked best, actually. We never took ourselves too seriously. And it was _easy_ —the whole thing just _worked_ , despite my tendency to worry and overanalyze.

“Tell me what you need,” he said. He had started to thrust in earnest and I was just barely holding it together.

“Just give me a little space,” I said. He pulled me up by the hips so my ass was against his hips and my cock lolled down—slightly _left_ , as always. I grabbed it with a free hand while I teetered on my left elbow.

“Holy fucking Andraste,” I breathed.

He laughed at me again, but his breathing was ragged—I knew he was close.

A moment later, I felt him jerk and convulse. My insides were _warm_ in a way they weren’t usually. But more than the physical feeling, I felt _him_ —his spirit, his soul, his essence. He pulled away from me and kneeled at the foot of the bed, shaking and panting. I turned to face him.

“Was that okay?” I asked.

He looked at me in disbelief, “ _perfect_ …” he breathed. He tackled me and we ended up on our sides facing each other. “Absolutely perfect.”

It didn’t matter that I still had a painful erection, I wanted to stay in that exact spot all night—and that’s what we did. That was what led to _that_ conversation—the one that he eventually used against me. Thinking back, it makes the betrayal worse—intimate actions followed by intimate words, used as _weapons_.

 

* * *

 

**Presently**

Never have I been so mortified as I was in those moments. In attempting to step into my pants I fell sideways and landed in a heap on my shoulder. I knocked over a side table on the way down, which sent an antique globe rolling across the floor toward Icis. She was standing in the doorway like a statue—frozen in place, unable to look away, mouth agape. As if today hadn’t been traumatizing enough, now she not only _knew_ her husband was having an affair, but she had visual proof. She would _never_ be able to unsee any of this.

I couldn’t seem to look at Cullen. Making eye contact seemed like the ultimate way to ruin Icis’ life. And _despite_ the fact that I was jealous, _despite_ the fact that I loved her husband, I didn’t _want_ to ruin her life.

“Alistair,” someone said. When I managed to look up from the floor, I saw that it was Bella. She looked absolutely furious—the angriest I’ve _ever_ seen her look. “I just came back to tell you that I’m leaving…” her voice was alarmingly steady, “I’ve gotten an earlier flight. When you’ve _collected_ yourself,” she eyed the room warily, “call me and we can arrange a date for you to move your things.”

I blinked at her stupidly. There was no arguing, of course. To assume that she would embrace this event as a sort of ‘coming out’ experience was ridiculous. _No_ , she saw it for what it was—a dirty, sneaky, disgusting affair; the same as it would have been if Cullen were a woman.

Icis still hadn’t spoken. I followed her gaze and finally looked at Cullen—he was the endpoint of her horrified stare.

“Icis,” he began.

He had somehow managed to get much more dressed than I had. His belt wasn’t buckled properly, but his pants were buttoned in place and he had an undershirt on—albeit inside out. He took three steps toward her. I thought that she would back up, but she didn’t. She did something _much worse_ —something I will always remember. She _crumpled_. Her knees gave out and she fell—almost in slow motion—to the floor. She landed in a kneeling position. Her hands gripped her abdomen, as if shielding the would-be baby from this catastrophe.

Cullen followed her down. He touched her gently. His hands alighted on her shoulders and he craned his neck to look into her face. He whispered something to her—I couldn’t make out the words, but it must have been something _good_ because she snapped her head up to look at him and eventually let her face fall into the hollow of his chest. She mumbled something as she sobbed.

I knew I should look away. I tried to. I just _couldn’t_. The sight of it haunts me to this day—my most horrifying nightmares include Cullen cradling Icis’ shaking body in the doorway of that office.

“Alistair?” said Cullen, after what felt like an eternity.

“Yeah?” I was so numb; I have no idea what my face looked like.

“I need you to _go_ ,” he said darkly. He hadn’t looked up at me. He was still protectively leaning over Icis. I realized at that moment that he _wasn’t_ shielding her from the situation or from the world—he was shielding her _from me_. As if I was some kind of monster that had snuck into their house and ruined it—somehow I’d _tricked_ Cullen into having sex with me for all these years. As if it was _just_ sex—that was the part that hurt the most.

 


	8. Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair tries to pick up the pieces of his life. [Enter: someone new.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A hint of something good and kind and sweet... even if it is still complicated.

A few weeks later, I still a mess. For the first week, I didn’t get out of bed. I checked into a very nice hotel and told the concierge to send up a week’s worth of room service. But by week two, I had to get back to work—I had a stack of papers on my desk that wouldn’t sign themselves. I went through my days in a numb haze of misery, barely completing my work at the most perfunctory level. It wasn’t until week three that I started to feel pseudo-human.

“Good morning, I’m looking for the editor,” said a man one morning.

I didn’t look up from my computer to acknowledge him—I just nodded. “You’ve found him.”

He sat—presumptuously—in the chair across the desk from me, “I’ve been hired by the Highever Review to assess your liability.”

At _that_ , I looked up. He was an alarmingly handsome person—possibly a little older than I was at the time, but endlessly more put-together-looking. This was _especially_ true since I’d been wallowing in self-pity for the last three weeks.

“You’ve been hired to do _what_?” I asked incredulously.

He cleared his throat and leaned a elbow nonchalantly on the desk between us. “Assess your liability—surely you’ve _heard_ …” He paused.

I looked at him blankly.

“One of your reporters blatantly plagiarized an article in the Highever Review…”  He looked at me like I was an absolute idiot.

Of course, I _felt_ like an idiot—to not know something this _egregious_ was going on in my own paper was a _huge_ problem. I had only a few seconds to decide how to handle this. I decided that being _nice_ was usually in everyone’s best interest.

“Of course, I’m sorry, I’m just not sure I should be speaking to you without my own counsel present,” I said through a plastic grin.

“That is your prerogative,” he said, “I’m Anders. We’re going to be seeing a lot of each other…” He extended his hand across the desk.

Upon making contact, I noticed how smooth his palms were—not at all like mine. Although I’d never done a day of physical labor in my life, I spent so much time throwing barbells around that I had developed thick calluses at the base of my third and fourth digits. I wondered if he felt them.

“Here’s my card,” he said, standing, “Call me when you have had a chance to speak to your in-house attorney and we’ll set up a meeting.” He smiled at me on his way out—a little bigger than I thought most attorneys would have.

When I was again alone in my office, I realized: it was the longest I’d managed to _not_ think about Cullen in the last three weeks.

 

* * *

 

Four days later, I’d had a chance to confer with _not only_ my attorney, but our board of directors. I had hoped the whole thing was blown out of proportion, but it wasn’t. Upon inspection, it seemed that one of our journalists _had_ copied an article written by someone up in Highever—nearly _word for word_. To make matters worse, our writer had received some modest accolades for the piece. That made the potential damages more substantial.

We had all agreed that the only thing to do was try to disavow all connection to the journalist in question. We called a meeting and sat waiting in the conference room.

Anders arrived a few minutes fashionably late with a host of aides. “Sorry I’m late,” he smiled broadly, “This city is just _full_ of traffic, isn’t it?” He laughed happily, as if he was going to talk to us about the weather and not the potential _ruin_ of our entire corporation.

“Well,” he said, opening a leather briefcase, “shall we get down to it?”

I leaned into the table. I was seated in the most powerful position in the room—exact middle, facing the door. He had chosen to sit directly across from me, which I now realized blocked my exit, essentially negating any power I might had retained in this meeting.

“Let’s,” I said. “This journalist has been reprimanded, fired, and blacklisted in the industry. We can also force him to issue a formal, public apology to the other author. Will that suffice?”

Anders looked up at me in silence for longer than anyone felt comfortable with. I heard feet shuffling and papers rustling all around the room.

“No.” He smiled again. A light danced in his eyes. It made him even more alarmingly attractive than the first time I’d seen him. His long-ish blonde hair fell around his jaw in exactly the right way—it looked effortless. His nose was dotted with a few well-placed freckles. And yet, despite his beautiful, _easy,_ way, I was _sure_ he was about to _ruin_ my life.

“Excuse me?” I raised an eyebrow at him and leaned closer.

“It’s not even _remotely_ enough,” he said. His grin seemed to be permanently imprinted on his mouth. His lips were rather full, I noticed—especially the bottom one. I transiently imagined sucking it into my mouth even as my temper flared.

“What are you proposing?” I asked irritably.

“Reparations,” he said seriously. He clicked a pen against his right shoulder and began scribbling something on a shred of paper. He slid the paper to me across the table and waited expectantly.

“Are you out of your _mind_?” I asked. The sum was sizable.

“No; but _you_ are if you think we’re leaving here without a settlement,” he answered.

I went from wanting to see what the inside of his mouth tasted like to wanting to strangle him in a matter of seconds—although the original thought still lingered superficially.

“What exactly is your game here?” I asked. I felt the eyes of my staff on me as I rose. For some reason, I wanted to seem imposing.

Anders followed suit, standing to look me in the eye. We were nearly the same height, but he seemed so much more _aligned_ than I did—as if his spine were more functional.

“No games, Mr. Theirin,” he smiled again. That expression was starting to infuriate me. “I’m just here to make sure everyone gets what he _deserves_.”

I’m not sure if it’s _true_ even now, but I could _swear_ he winked at me on that last word. Whether he did or didn’t is immaterial to the retelling, but suffice it to say there were _two_ kinds of tension in that board room—anger and desire.

“I’ll be in touch,” he said sweetly. With that, he turned and left. His assistants followed him sheepishly out.

 

* * *

 

Later that night, I found myself in the bar of my hotel-home. This whole thing had me stressed beyond measure. I was drinking too much and eating too little, despite the copious amounts of room service available to me.

“Thanks,” I said as the bartender slid me my fourth bourbon of the night.

“I’ll have what he’s having,” said an irritatingly cheery voice. I knew it was Anders before I even looked.

“Hi,” I mumbled.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he smirked as he sat down next to me—close enough that our knees touched for a second. “Don’t you _live_ somewhere?” he joked.

“You’re looking at it… for now anyway,” I said.

He looked at me incredulously, but it didn’t affect his good mood, “Too bad there’s so much unpleasantness between us right now…” He nodded to the bartender, who had put a drink in front of him noiselessly. “I have a feeling you’re an interesting person to know.”

I laughed humorlessly, “I _used_ to be.”

“See?” he slapped my knee, “that’s exactly what I mean… who _says_ something like that?”

I tried to think of a retort, but failed. _Who indeed_?

“So,” I sipped my drink again, punctuating my sentence, “how long are you going to be here?”

“As long as it takes,” he answered quickly.

I side-eyed him and swallowed hard. “As long as it takes to ruin my life, you mean?”

“Oh _Alistair_ ,” he made a tsking sound and furrowed his brow, “Can I call you Alistair?”

I shrugged.

“...I’m not here for _you_ ,” he explained. “I’m here to expose a bigger problem in journalism today… this is a growing trend.”

I knew he was right. It was one of the reasons I’d resisted this stupid gig in the first place. Ironically, no one hated journalists as much as _I_ did.

“You don’t seem much like the rest of them,” he mused.

I looked up at him in surprise. My stool swiveled until we were face to face. It was the first time I’d looked at him full-on all night. He was even more handsome in the low lighting of this bar than he had been in the conference room earlier. I cursed internally as I felt a burning sensation in my gut.

“I’m not,” I answered plainly.

“Oh?” He smiled and leaned a little closer. “Don’t hold back—I won’t tell.”

“Sure you won’t… that seems like exactly the type of thing that will land me in front of a grand jury giving testimony…” I rolled my eyes, “No thanks.”

“Okay, okay,” he pulled a pen from his pocket and grabbed a coaster. “Give me a dollar.”

“What?” I asked.

“Give me a dollar,” he repeated, “Come on.”

Reluctantly, I drew a dollar from my wallet and passed it to him. In return he handed me the coaster. It read, ‘12-Hour Retainer fee: $1’.

“See?” he smiled, capping the pen, “Now I’m your attorney for the rest of the night, so I can’t say a word of this to anyone.”

I fought to quell another surge of warmth—a little lower this time.

I cleared my throat, “I’m a writer.”

“And?” he asked.

“... _and_?” I widened my eyes, “...and that’s _not_ the same as a journalist. All I’ve ever wanted to do is write a novel.”

“I see,” he said. His tone wasn’t haughty. He looked genuinely interested. “What will you write about?” he asked.

“Well,” I decided to be utterly transparent—there was no fear of exposure in light of our barroom contact. “It’s already almost done. It’s about a man who falls in love with his best friend… but they never get together until it’s basically too late.” I’d figured out the ending at about 3am on my balcony. “...the friend is dying.”

Anders gasped.

“So they only have about a year together before he dies,” I explained. “They think they’re going to be able to save him, but a bunch of things happen and they can’t do it in the end.”

“That’s _so_ sad,” said Anders. His elbow was leaning on the bar. He let his head gently fall into the upturned palm, exposing a patch of skin at his collar. My eyes darted there unintentionally. He caught me and smiled.

“But they make the most of the time they have together,” I added. “It’s going to be _very_ bittersweet—a really romantic tragedy, if I do say so myself.” I laughed a little sadly.

“...just a _guess_ ,” he leaned a little closer to me, as if telling me a secret. “You know something about this particular type of heartbreak?” His head was still propped on his hand, but he was so close to me I couldn’t believe he hadn’t fallen out of his chair.

I nodded, “I guess so… How did you know?”

“You’re living in a hotel,” he looked pointedly into each corner of the room.

We stared at each other for a long moment and I almost kissed him. I had had enough to drink that I was feeling brave and reckless. But we were interrupted by the bartender telling us they were closing.

“Oh?” I snapped upright, suddenly rushing. “What time is it?”

Anders left some cash on the bar and checked his watch, “1:55am,” he answered. “Funny, I'm not tired in the least.”

“Well,” I brushed a hand through my hair, trying to seem nonchalant, “If you’re up for another drink, I have a really nice bottle of Bordeaux in my room.” In truth, the bottle had been for Cullen. He was more of a wine-drinker than I was. I’d bought the bottle at an auction a few weeks earlier and was planning to surprise him with it at our next meeting—the meeting that would _not_ be coming.

“I’m game,” said Anders. He gestured to the elevator bay, “after you.”

In the elevator we chatted idly. I kept checking my reflection in the mirrored walls and shifting my weight. I was _annoyingly_ aroused.

“This is me,” I plunged the key into room 1605. It was a suite on the top floor. I’d specifically requested it when I knew I’d be there for an indefinite amount of time.

“Wow,” said Anders, dropping his blazer over the back of a chair. He walked to the french doors and opened them wide onto the balcony. “This is an _amazing_ view.”

I followed him outside and leaned against the railing.

“I’m down on floor 3—I’m going to have to demand a bigger lodging allowance on my future jobs,” he joked.

I laughed, “how about some of that wine?” I asked, ducking back inside.

He nodded and turned back toward the railing. His silhouette was tall and slender—perfectly symmetrical—against the twinkling cityscape.

I tried not to let the cork make a sound as a pulled it from the bottle, but I was so nervous I was shaking a little. I managed to pour it into two wine glasses without spilling.

“Here,” I handed Anders a glass and raised mine to initiate a toast. “To legally binding contracts.”

He laughed, “You have about 9 hours left to spill your guts.”

We clinked our glasses and tasted the wine. Frankly, it _tasted_ like Cullen—almost every time I’d ever kissed him. I winced slightly, but managed to suppress it.

“This is really good,” said Anders. “I’m not even really a ‘wine person,’ but I can tell _that_.”

“I’m not either,” I admitted.

Anders eyed me suspiciously. “Then _for whom_ did you buy this masterpiece?”

I blushed and turned to walk back into the room. He followed me, closing the french doors behind him.

“I don’t want to talk about that,” I said seriously.

“Then what _do_ you want to do?” he cocked his head to the side and took two steps closer to me. We were almost touching.

That was enough of an invitation for me. I wrapped both hands around his back and pulled him flush against me. My lips curved around his mouth and I finally got to experience what that bottom lip felt like between mine. It was thick and full and tasted like something delicious I couldn't name.

When we parted, he was smiling at me impishly. He slowly slid his hands from my hips to my collar, lingering on each line of my chest. His fingers delicately unfastened each of my buttons in turn until my shirt flopped open. Normally, I would have been self-conscious about this scenario—I hadn’t been working out nearly as much lately—but the way he raked over me with his eyes made me feel handsome.

I nuzzled into the crook of his neck and let my lips trail across the edge of his jaw. I felt him inhale sharply and took that as an invitation to walk him back toward the bed. When the backs of his knees touched it, he let himself fall gently onto the plush bedspread. The bed had already been turned down and the sheets were crisply folded—inviting us to crawl between them. I just had a few layers of clothing to get through before that could happen.

Anders pushed my shirt off of my shoulders and let it fall. He kneaded the skin of my chest with his palms and craned his neck to capture my lips. He was, by _far,_ the most adept lover I’d ever been with—I could tell already. I encouraged his shirt off over his head.

I rolled onto my side and pulled him so we were facing each other. He propped his head on a curved arm and leaned in to continue kissing me. His skin was perfectly freckled _all over_ , I noticed—not just the bridge of his nose and apples of his cheeks. I curled and struggled to kiss more patches of him. I eventually found myself nipping at the waist of his pants. I looked up at him daringly.

“Maybe we shouldn’t,” he said.

I sat up, squinting. “What?”

The mood had changed alarmingly quickly. “I’m still your attorney, you know,” he joked.

I smiled, “very funny,” I wrapped my arms around him and kissed his neck again, but he stiffened against me.

“Come on, Alistair,” he backed up, “I better go.”

I couldn’t figure out what the hell had happened. Between the alcohol and my pulse beating furiously in my neck I couldn’t discern where I’d gone wrong.

“Um,” I stumbled up, trying to stand, “Okay…” I straightened, taking a breath.

Anders was already pulling his shirt back on over his head. “I’ll see you first thing in the morning,” he smiled and turned toward the door.

I followed him and put an arm out to keep him from opening it. I didn’t mean for the gesture to be _threatening_ , but the look he gave me told me to pull my arm back _right that second_.

“Good night,” I said. I leaned in to kiss him, but he turned his head. My lips made awkward contact with his ear.

A second later he was gone.


	9. Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair goes on a date. Everything seems like it might actually be okay for once.
> 
> This chapter begins a little arc of fluff that makes my heart beat faster. Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone else feeling the Anderstair vibes? *fans self* I'm dying over here.

The next morning came quickly. Intrusive sunbeams woke me through the veranda doors. In our haste to get to the _undressing_ parts of last night, we hadn’t thought to close the blinds. After Anders left, I crawled between the sheets with a fair amount of self-loathing and didn’t give a second thought to what the morning would feel like. If I _had_ thought about it, I wouldn’t have done it justice—I felt like _garbage._

In the bathroom mirror I assessed the damage. My eyes were puffy and threatening to close. My hair was an absolute nightmare of reddish-brown knots and tangles. This day was going to _suck_.

At my office, I tried to sneak in unseen—I was about half an hour late—but my assistant caught me.

“Alistair,” she whispered intensely.

I waved her off, “I just need to set some things down in the conference room, Genine.” I stepped past her and burst through the door.

“Nice of you to join us,” said Anders peevishly.

Today he was sitting in _my_ seat—the powerful one. Not that it really mattered—I couldn’t have exuded power if my life depended on it. I was too hung over, too sad, and too embarrassed about _whatever_ last night was.

“There _is_ a lot of traffic in this city, I suppose,” mused Anders. He was just as friendly today as he had been yesterday. He was proving to be unflappable.

“My apologies,” I said, sitting.

“Now then,” he looked at one of his assistants, “where were we?”

“We were totaling the damages,” answered the assistant. She had a nasally voice that squeaked out of a pinched mouth opening. I didn’t even like _watching_ her speak, let alone hearing it. Of course, I was so hung over and miserable I hated _everything_ and _everyone_ that morning.

“And where are these totals coming from?” asked one of my board members.

Anders looked up placidly. Ostensibly, it was to address the question, but he only looked at me. “They’re from the revenue that _your_ company gleaned from this theft _and_ the potential revenue lost by my client.”

I bit the inside of my cheek. “How can you possibly decide which revenue is from a particular article?” I asked. “The paper comes out as a _unit_.”

“That’s what the experts do,” he shrugged and smiled in a way I found infuriating and inviting, “I’m just here to make sure the law is followed.”

I couldn’t really argue with that. I sat back in my chair and looked at everyone else, who was having a similar reaction.

“So,” said Anders, who was suddenly rising and gathering up the papers in front of him. “I need to have all this sent to my analysts. I’ll contact you when we have anything further.”

Like a whirlwind, he was gone.

I spent the next few minutes handling my board members and assuring everyone that we _would_ come out of this alive. As soon as it was possible, I escaped down the hallway to my office. I had a soft couch in there that seemed like the perfect place to lie down for an hour. My head was pounding.

Genine caught me in the hallway again. “Alistair,” she called.

I stopped short.

“That attorney left a message for you,” she said.

My interest was piqued. “What is it?”

She handed me a small, folded piece of paper.

 **[** _Volturno’s_ \- 8pm - sharp. It’s going to cost you more than a dollar. **]**

I smiled, despite myself.

 

* * *

 

By the time I was supposed to meet Anders, I was finally feeling human again. Although the idea of drinking more seemed unpalatable, I ordered myself something while I waited for him at the bar. He’d picked a _surprisingly_ nice restaurant—I guess after seeing my suite he decided I could afford it. And I _could_ —that wasn’t the point. It was a place where people went if they wanted to be _seen_ —by the paparazzi, by other society types, and even by the occasional member of the Ferelden royal family. I _should_ have felt at home here, but I didn’t. It was actually the type of place Cullen would have loved to go with me. The decor was perfect, the wine list exquisite, and the staff vigilant—if only we could have done _anything_ in public.

As I started to ruminate, I caught a glimpse of Anders. He was handing something to the maître d' and exchanging niceties with a woman in a snowfleur coat. I paid the bar tab and moved to meet him, drink in hand. I hadn’t sipped it yet, so I handed it to him.

“Thank you,” he said, taking the glass. He leaned in and kissed my cheek like it was the most normal thing in the world—as if we’d been married for ten years. I was dumbstruck when he pulled back.

“Shall we?” he asked.

The host showed us to our seat—a perfect square table near a glass fireplace. We sat on adjoining edges. I didn’t arrange it, but my name often got me special treatment in places like this. Little did they know, I was barely _anyone_. 

The waiter turned out to be Orlesian. His accent was thick enough that it was slightly hard to understand what he was saying, but it added to the ambiance.

“So,” said Anders, after he’d ordered an obscenely expensive bottle of wine, “are you surprised?”

I _wasn’t_ actually. This seemed like _just_ the kind of weird situation I often got myself into. But I joked, “I’m not totally convinced I’m awake—have I dreamt you into existence?”

“Ha!” he laughed and smirked. The left side of his mouth was far more active than the right, I noticed. Additionally, there was a small scar along the right corner of his jaw. It was nearly imperceptible through his neatly groomed stubble, but there was a _story_ there—I could tell.

“I think if you’d dreamt me up, you might not be in a lawsuit…” he rolled his eyes playfully, “but whatever gets you off—who am _I_ to judge?”

I was beginning to adjust to his sense of humor. He was actually _really_ funny. Alarmingly, I was starting to _like_ him—a lot. I wished I didn’t. It felt unsafe. My experience was of life was that people were inviting at first and _punishing_ ultimately. It was even my experience of _myself_ —poor Bella.

“So, is this all going to end up in a book someday?” he asked.

I smiled, “probably.” I shifted my chair slightly so that I could reach his knee under the corner of the table. “Will you _mind_?”

He smiled again—that _infuriating_ smile—and slid his hand around my own. He moved them to the edge of the table. I flinched at first—I was so used to _hiding_.

“Tell me,” he leaned in a little closer to my face, “how closeted _are_ you, exactly?”

I laughed aloud, “I’m really not _trying_ to be…” I squeezed his hand in its new location on the table. I felt myself blushing.

“It’s okay…” he looked around the restaurant surreptitiously, “I’ll _fix_ you.”

I wasn’t sure what that meant. I had a _lot_ of questions, now that I considered it. Most pressingly, what had happened last night? I wasn’t ready to ask that one yet, though.

“Why did you choose this restaurant?” I asked. I detached our hands and reached for my wine glass. It was a white: Chateau de Cha-something. _Orlesian_. It wasn’t like anything Cullen would have liked— _thank the Maker_.

“I come here whenever I’m in Denerim,” he answered.

“Really?” I frowned.

“Yes, really,” answered Anders. He looked at me seriously, “I purposely sue rich pseudo-nobles and then get them to take me into dinner. It’s all very _nefarious_.”

For a split second I wasn’t sure what to do, but he cracked a smile a moment later and we both laughed.

“I have never been here,” he cocked his head to the side, “I heard it was beautiful… but,” he leaned in, “to be honest, I had to drop your name to get a reservation.”

I rolled my eyes—now I understood why everyone had been kissing my ass since I arrived.

“Oh,” Anders cooed into his wine glass, “you don’t _mind_ , do you? It’s really very lovely.”

“No,” I softened, “I don’t mind.” I did have more questions, though. “Where are you from?”

“Here and there…” answered Anders evasively. He smiled at me again. “I went to college and law school in Kirkwall… But I've lived all over the place. Most recently Highever.”

“And there's no one _waiting for you_ back in Highever?” I asked. I regretted it instantly. It was conditioning—I assumed _everyone_ was about to start an affair.

“No,” he grumbled. “No one as handsome as you, anyway.”

I managed a smile, but I _wondered_ —was there someone out there whose life I would manage to ruin? I felt so bad about Icis, I shivered.

“Now it's my turn,” said Anders.

“What?”

“To ask probing questions…” He rubbed my arm gently as he spoke. “How long have you been divorced?”

“How did you know I was married?” I asked.

“You have a tan line where your wedding ring was,” explained Anders. “That tells me it _can't_ have been long…”

“It wasn't…” I pushed a hand through my hair. I wanted him to _like_ me—this story might not get us there. “It was over for a long time before we separated, though.”

“And did that have anything to do with the _guy_ you were in love with?” he asked.

“Who says I was in love with a _guy_?” I smirked.

“Your story… I'm assuming you're _not_ the one who is dying, right?” He gripped my arm a little tighter.

“Right,” I sighed. “It _all_ has to do with him…”

Anders let that cryptic answer go. He didn't say anything, but he looked at me gently. His fingers were making little circles over my forearm now. I liked the way he kept touching me. It was the first time in so long that someone had been _proud_ to be seen with me.

“Your turn,” he prompted.

Apparently this was a game now. “Okay,” I tried to think of another innocuous one. “Why did you become a lawyer?”

“That's an easy one,” he straightened in his chair and began gesturing with his hands. I missed the one on my forearm instantly. “I saw a lot of injustice in the world around me—especially for people like _us_. And I wanted to do something about it.”

“Like us?” I asked.

He raised an eyebrow. “ _Gay_ ,” he waited for me to say something. “Or Bi or Pan or whatever…the whole community, really,” he amended. “My first job was at the National Center for HIV policy.”

“Wow,” I said. “That’s very important work…” My mind was working fast, though. Did this mean that someone he knew was affected by HIV—or AIDS even? Is that why he didn’t want to have sex with me? I was getting slightly sweaty.

“Well, it _was_ —but corporate law pays better…” he laughed. “I still donate a lot of my time to organizations like that, though,” he said more seriously, “I’m going to be taking a trip to Nevarra next year to do some aid work, actually.”

I nodded. Everything I learned about Anders intimated that he was a better person on his worst day than I’d been on my _best_.

 

* * *

 

Our food arrived a moment later. Everything was perfect. The entire dinner passed without a hitch. By the time I'd paid the bill, I wasn't ready to say goodbye.

“Good thing we're going to the same place,” said Anders on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. “I'm missing you already.” His smile was a bit lopsided now—he'd had the majority of the wine.

I wound a hand around his waist and pulled him into my side while we waited for the uber.

“I _would_ invite you to my room again, but I'm a little worried we'd have a repeat of last night,” I whispered into his ear.

He laughed, “you're probably right…”

I still didn't really know what had happened. I decided to ask. “Last night…” I pulled him closer and turned him so we could face each other, “did I do something _wrong_?”

He looked at me strangely. “No, of course not.” He looped his hands around my neck. “You did everything _right_. That's why I had to go.”

I squinted at him.

“To be honest, I thought we were just going to hook up…” he admitted. “When I discovered how _great_ you are,” he paused, planting a kiss against my cheek, “I decided we should wait on that…”

 

* * *

 

When we stepped out of the uber and into our lobby, I kissed him goodnight.  “I'll see you tomorrow?” I asked.

“Oh really?” He smirked, “are you asking me out again?”

I blushed. I had actually meant _at work_ , but I decided to go with it. “Yeah… Anywhere you want to go.”

He grinned, “Okay, it's a _date_. I'll leave the details with your assistant.”

I gripped his hands in mine. I didn't want to let go. “Okay… Are you _sure_ you don't want to come up?” I asked. It was stupid, but I really didn't want to be alone.

He rolled his eyes.

“Templar’s honor—I won't do a thing,” I promised. “Well... maybe just a _few_ things…” I pulled him closer to me, “...but nothing we can't take back.” People were eyeing us warily as they tried to get past us to the elevators. Normally, I would have been mortified, but tonight I couldn't be bothered to care.

“Another night… maybe tomorrow,” said Anders.

I groaned and pouted, but he hit the elevator button anyway.

“I'll see you tomorrow,” he said at the 3rd floor.

“See you,” I said. As the doors closed, I realized that this was the happiest I'd been in three years.


	10. Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair gets a new apartment. Anders helps him move in.
> 
> I'm not going to mince words... there is a lot of sex in this chapter... It's not *about* that, though; it's about how being with someone new is awkward and scary, but if they're the right person, it can teach you something about life--about yourself. 
> 
> Enjoy this calm before the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Denerim of the future is a lot like Boston... metropolitan, but steeped in history.

I’ve already mentioned that Cullen and I used to talk a lot during sex. At first, I thought that was something special that only happened because of our ‘ _cosmic connection_ ’ or whatever, but the very first time Anders and I ever had sex, I learned it was just _me_ —I seem to _never_ be able to shut up. The difference was that Anders liked it.

           

* * *

 

“I think that’s the last of them,” I said to Anders. He had graciously agreed to help me move into my new apartment. Of course, it was the _least_ he could do since he picked it. By his own admission, it still _seemed_ like a hotel. The building was a high rise with 24 hour concierge, a spa, and all the amenities one would expect with five stars. It wasn't even my taste, but I loved it because he loved it.

When it became clear that this lawsuit business was going to drag on for months, he agreed to stay with me in the interim.

“This is going to take forever to organize,” he mused.

I nodded. “At least we can work on it together,” I smiled vacantly. I was _crazy_ about him. I wanted to be near him every second of every day. Despite the fact that he was _suing_ me, I dreaded separating even a work.

He smiled at me. “Let’s just make a quick plan of attack.”

I nodded and followed him into the second bedroom.

“So this is going to be _my_ room,” he announced.

“What?” I asked.

“I’m going to need to sleep _somewhere_ ,” he laughed.

I frowned. “I thought you were going to sleep with me…” I put a hand on his waist and leaned into him.

“ _Every_ night?” he looked at me with disbelief.

I felt a little silly now— _yes_ , every night… for an _indeterminate_ amount of time.

“Al,” he laughed, “I’m _kidding_.” He smirked at me. “This is going to make a really nice office slash guest room… maybe a huge closet.”

I exhaled audibly.

“So we’ll pull that big desk in here against this wall,” he gestured to the widest part next to a big window. “...and then we’ll put that _uncomfortable_ bed over here.” He laughed, “we don’t want guests to stay _too_ long.”

I smiled at him. He was so funny and handsome and sweet. I was _disgustingly_ into him.

“Okay, let’s go look at the master.” He pulled me by the crook of my arm toward what I considered the best room in the place. It was the reason I’d agreed to live in such an outlandishly expensive and pretentious building. It had floor-to-ceiling windows on two of its four walls and overlooked the park. 45 floors up, the city looked so peaceful.

The bed had already been assembled in the center of the room. Its head was against one of the non-windowed walls. I imagined waking up in it—we would be able to watch the sunrise together.

“Help me with these sheets.” Anders grabbed the best ones I owned— _of course_. They billowed over the mattress and I grabbed the free end.

When we’d tucked them in without any creases and let the comforter float down atop them, Anders sat down.

“Are we done?” I asked. The whole room looked like a tornado had come through—only the bed was made.

“For now…” he mumbled. He was looking out the window. The sun was setting in the distance.

I couldn’t help it—I felt suddenly playful. I rolled and tackled him until I had him pinned against the mattress, diagonally.

“Hi,” he laughed.

“I’m so glad you live here,” I said.

He squinted at me. “It’s not _permanent_ , you know…” his tone was cautionary. “I’m going to need to go back to Highever when I finish suing your pants off—you probably won’t be able to afford to live here anymore.” He laughed.

I frowned. I considered rolling off of him and pouting, but I didn’t. Instead, I wedged my thigh between his knees and grabbed onto him more tightly. He had to pant; I had his chest so squished.

“I didn’t agree to you leaving, you know,” I joked.

He tried to laugh, but he didn’t have enough space under my chest.

“I _meant_ to tell you,” I cocked my head to the side playfully. “I already sent a letter of resignation to the partners at your firm—they don’t think you’re coming back.”

He smiled. “And what did this letter say?”

I looked to the left upper corner of my vision, inventing it. “Thank you for your consideration all these years, but I have met someone and decided to move in with him in Denerim,” I began. Anders laughed. “...if you _saw_ him, you’d understand—he’s quite fetching.” He laughed again. “And besides, he’s a lot bigger than I am, so I can’t get out from under his chest.”

He craned his neck to kiss me.

I accidentally ground my hips against him. He eyed me warily—I was only half-hard, but the intention was clear.

“Are you trying to give me a reason to stay?” he asked.

I laughed. “Is it _working_?”

He kissed me again—softer, more seriously. “You tell me,” he pushed me so I’d roll onto my side, facing him. He took my hand and ran it down his side, curving over the edge of his hip and eventually resting it against his cock.

I sucked in a breath through pursed lips. It wasn’t like we’d never done _anything_ , but we were waiting—Anders was serious about safety. He'd arranged for us to get tested together a few days earlier. I thought it would be the most awkward day of my life, but it wasn't. It felt _cared for_ and _responsible_ —things I _never_ felt in my tryst with Cullen.

“ _Feels like_ I might be convincing you,” I mumbled. I stroked gently along the outline. The fabric of his sweats was extremely soft cotton, but it felt like armor to me. “If you take these off, I’d be able to tell you more definitively.”

He laughed. “Okay, Al,” he smiled, “let’s play.” He hopped up onto his knees and pushed his pants down over his hips. His cock sprung free. It was impressive. I have to say, I felt a little inadequate. I was probably blushing.

“Well?” he eyed me even as he pulled his shirt off over his head.

While the fabric was over his eyes, I shifted so I was kneeling too. I wrapped both palms around his hips and pulled him against me. He let his arms wrap around my shoulders and looked into my eyes.

“You seem overdressed, Alistair,” he quirked. I loved the way he said my name.

I nodded and started shedding layers. When I pulled my underwear off I had to bite back a bit of nervousness. We hadn’t actually _looked_ at each other naked up until this point and I knew I was fit, but he was inherently more _endowed_. I had a silent argument with myself: how many other penises must he have seen? How many of them were better than mine? Did any of them also lean to the left?

“What’s the matter?” he asked me.

“Nothing,” I answered. I hugged onto him, but resisted letting our bodies come together.

“Liar,” he pulled me against him. The first second we touched, I imagined a highly organized introduction process happening between our anatomy.

I managed to laugh, even as I felt a chill run up my spine. Anders’ skin was warm and smooth and better than the entirety of my experience of having sex.

“If you don’t tell me what you’re thinking,” mumbled Anders into the skin of my neck, “this is not going to be nearly as much fun…”

I swallowed audibly. “I’m so nervous,” I admitted.

He pulled back until he could see me and laughed. “Why?”

“Because you're _perfect_ ,” I whispered.

He laughed—harder than all the times before. “That is absolutely _not_ true.”

“You are _to me_ ,” I argued. “And I want you to think I'm perfect too…”

“What fun would that be?” He was gently running his fingers up and down my back.

I looked at him quizzically.

“My favorite thing about you is that you're a _mess_ ,” said Anders.

I rubbed a hand across my forehead. “Thanks?”

“You say what you think. You have a lot of conflicting emotions,” he explained.

It didn’t make me feel any better. “ _Okay_ …”

“Come here,” he sat back and pulled me across his lap. I was acutely aware of how close we were. I wanted to touch him—I wanted to do a _lot_ of things—but I was scared and stressed and _terribly_ unsure of myself. 

“Who _did_ this to you?” he asked.

I felt my brow furrow. “I’m not sure what you mean…”

“Alistair, you’re gorgeous,” he said seriously. He craned his neck and looked down at me with a critical eye. “You are _absolutely_ the fittest person I’ve ever been with. You’re smart, you’re thoughtful, you’re _kind_.”

I blushed.

“And you’re intelligent enough to _know_ how great you are,” he added, “why _don’t_ you?”

“I guess I wasn’t sure after everything that happened with _the guy_ ,” I explained. I had never said Cullen’s name. I would like to say it was because I didn’t _want_ to, but really I was just afraid to say it aloud—I thought I might burst into tears.

“That _guy_ ,” Anders made a face, “is a shithead.”

I laughed.

“Seriously,” he pulled me closer. “ _Tell me_ what you like,” he said again.

“I don’t actually know,” I answered honestly, “...but I know I like _you._ ”

He smiled. “Then show me.”

I disentangled my legs and kneeled over him. I bit my lip without meaning to. It wasn’t supposed to be sexy, it was just a reaction to how horrifying stressed I was.

“I really want to lick that,” I said.

“You’re _hilarious_ ,” he laughed. “Just do it.”

I began by kissing the head. I pursed my lips together and let them slowly open as I sucked it into my mouth. Anders gasped.

“Is that _okay_?” I paused, looking up at him.

He nodded furiously.

I smirked. Maybe I _was_ good at this. Feeling encouraged, I flattened my tongue and let it graze over the sides of him in turn. One, then the next, until he was glistening. He made a keening noise and shivered hard enough that I felt it reverberate through me. I sucked the head into my mouth and hollowed my cheeks as I started to bob.

“Al…” he moaned. I knew it _wasn’t_ the beginning of a sentence.

I picked up the pace and added a fist to the part of him I couldn’t possibly swallow. No matter how under-active my gag reflex was, I had no chance of letting him hilt in my mouth. I shivered thinking about it. _My boyfriend_ has the biggest cock I’ve ever seen, I thought. It was stupid, but I imagined a scenario where I’d have the chance to brag about it.

I suddenly sat up. He looked at me like I’d slapped him.

“You’re my _boyfriend_ ,” I said nonsensically. I _meant_ , ‘Maker, I can’t believe you’re _mine_ ,’ but it didn’t come out like that.

“Yeah?” he laughed, despite the panting.

“And you’re _proud_ of that?” I asked.

He sat up and pressed his chest against mine. “Of course I am.”

“Maker…” I mumbled, “I’m so _lucky_.”

He laughed. “Maybe I should take over for a while—it seems like you’re a bit overwhelmed.”

I shrugged. I _was._

He reached both hands between us and rubbed our anatomy together. It felt strange—it wasn’t something I’d specifically done with Cullen. Everything with Cullen was rough and rushed and ephemeral, even when it was theoretically romantic.

“Tell me what feels good,” he said.

“This,” I answered. “Am I _supposed_ to think this is as good as being fucked?” I was at the point of arousal where I had no filter—I was saying every thought as quickly as it occurred to me—and I _did_ think this was ‘as good’.

He laughed. “You can think anything you want. I happen to _disagree_ with you, but that’s fine too.”

He stroked us both in rhythm until I replaced his hand on himself with my own palm.

“So… are you a top or a bottom?” he asked me.

Heretofore, I wasn't aware I was required to _choose_. “I don't know,” I answered stupidly.

He laughed. “I'm more of a top, but I'll bottom for you if you like it better that way…” He breathed.

“You have _beautiful_ …uh… _anatomy…_ ” I stumbled over the words breathlessly.

He laughed.

“But to be honest, I'm a little _scared_ to let you put that in me…” I said weakly.

He laughed again. “You're not the first person to tell me that.”

I frowned. Obviously, neither of us was _virginal,_ but I didn’t want to specifically picture him with other people.

He was smirking at me haughtily as he stretched himself out on the bed in front of me. “I’m afraid to ask, but do you actually know where the bag with my toiletries ended up?”

I shook my head.

“This is going to be much harder, then…” he mumbled. “Come here.” He waved me over until I was kneeling near his head. He rose up on his elbows and opened his mouth.

I wanted to watch, but as soon as he sucked me into his mouth I felt like my eyelids were lead. They closed heavily and I saw stars in the darkness. Soon I was panting and shaking so strongly I was afraid my legs would give out. Just when I was on the edge of ruining this whole thing before it got started, he let me go. I string of spit connected us for the first three inches. It _could_ have been obscene, but he had a way of making _everything_ alluring.

He bit his lip and gestured with his eyes.

The next few minutes can only be described as an out of body experience. I was so nervous that I went through the whole awkward process with the aid of golf analogies: ‘Lining up the shot,’ ‘don’t get caught in a sand trap,’ ‘going for a hole in one,’ that sort of idiotic thing.

Because I could never turn off the narration in my head, I also imagined the entire experience from a third person limited perspective:

_“Alistair tried not to shake as he pressed the tip of his barely-adequate cock against Anders’ opening. He tested its patency while **it** tested his resolve. He almost left the room screaming, but managed to get seated before his nerves got the better of him…”_

“Love?” asked Anders. His voice reunited my mind and body. “Are you all right?” He smiled at me over his shoulder.

“Um… are _you_?” I asked.

He nodded. I felt his muscles contract and relax around me. I pulled my hips back a little and tentatively pushed them forward. He exhaled sharply. Again, I backed up, and snapped forward a bit faster this time. He groaned into the bedspread.

From there, I was off—no longer fumbling and nervous, but completely automated. Thank the maker for biological imperatives and inborn instincts. I still contend that it's only because of circulating hormones that I managed to do this at all. But before I knew it, I was listening as Anders came apart under me and I wasn’t far behind.

“Finish,” he said. His voice was more commanding than mine would have been in the reversed scenario.

I didn’t argue. A moment later, I collapsed flush against his back and tried to calm the twitching in each of my muscles.

If you remember correctly, this was the part I was never sure how to deal with—with Cullen, anyway. But with Anders, it was easy. He wrapped his arm around backwards as far as he could and found the edge of my jaw.

“You’re very good at that, you know,” he whispered.

I blushed.

“Come on,” he pushed up onto his elbows as I disentangled myself from him. He was in the bathroom with the shower running before I stopped seeing spots.

He pulled me into the shower as soon as I crossed the threshold. “I still don’t actually know where the toiletries are… but I found some dish soap…” he laughed.

“It’s going to be tough on my skin,” I smirked.

“Well, when we find some lotion and I’ll help you re-moisturize,” he looked me up and down hungrily.

I wondered what was next. Was he done with me? Was he going to leave? I wasn’t used to having an infinite amount of time after sex.

 

* * *

 

“What are we going to do now?” I asked, tying a towel around my waist.

“I’m not unpacking anything else tonight,” he announced. He was vigorously drying his hair with a hand towel—he’d only found one full-sized one—which left the rest of his body exposed.

I walked over to him and gently encircled his waist with my arms.

He stopped drying his hair and looked at me. “Oh… you think I’m going to _leave_ now,” he said. It wasn’t a question—he _knew_.

I shrugged.

He placed his palms on the tops of my shoulders and kissed me. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

We both laughed—our lips still brushing.

“I _am_ going to need to change the sheets, though,” he announced, walking past me toward the bedroom— _our_ bedroom.

“I used to be really self-conscious about that,” I mumbled from the bathroom doorway. “I never knew what to do when _I_ made that— _mess_ …”

He looked up at me, smiling as always, “Well, we have a washer and dryer in the unit.”

I laughed.

“Put the new ones on and I’ll meet you back here in ten minutes tops,” he carried the sheets away.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, I searched the bed with my fingertips before I opened my eyes. I found Anders on his side, turned away from me. I wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him back against me.

He mumbled something unintelligible and hit me with a pillow.

“I don’t know if I’m going to like living with you if you’re going to _attack_ me in the mornings,” I joked.

He backed up into me and turned his head. “I’m not _living_ here,” he corrected, “I’m _staying here_ —temporarily.”

I swallowed hard. I wished he’d stop making that distinction.

“After last night, I thought you might have changed your mind,” I said into his ear.

He laughed, “If I got _attached_ to every guy who penetrated me I’d be living in houses all across the coast.”

I thought that was a little insensitive, but I ignored it. “That just makes me think you’re slutty.”

He laughed hard enough that his chest shook. “I’m just kidding…” He rolled over to face me. “I’m sure you can tell that I’m pretty _attached_ already, actually.” He smiled.


	11. Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next six months pass happily. Alistair finally starts to settle into his life. But nothing is picture-perfect forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love them together so much. Just saying.
> 
> If you're not convinced about this pairing yet... I'm making it my mission to persuade you in the next three chapter arc. :)

Over time, I healed. I ran the paper with ease and managed to balance settling the lawsuit with my other responsibilities.

Anders helped. In the months since that first day in our new apartment, he and I grew close. We spent our days working on separate projects, but we snuck notes to each other through our assistants and sent texts just to say hello. I managed to _stop_ worrying that he was going to leave suddenly.

One afternoon, I arrived home earlier than usual.

“Anders?” I called in the entryway. The whole place smelled like Orlesian cheese.

“Alistair? Is that you?” He sounded farther away than the kitchen, even though I heard simmering pans.

“Who _else_ were you expecting?” I asked, rounding the corner. When he didn’t answer, I tried again, “What are you _doing_?”

“Nothing…” he stammered. He was inexpertly trying to block my view of the bathroom door.

“Oh yeah?” I leaned to his left to look behind him, “What's in the bathroom, then?”

He let his shoulders slump, “Okay… I was going to wait until _after_ dinner… but…” He turned and opened the door ajar. “Here!” He thrust a tiny orange kitten into my chest.

“Maker, what have you done?” I asked. “Are cats even _allowed_ in this building?”

He shrugged. “They'll never know… Besides, he's the cutest _ever_ , right?”

I had to admit, the cat was adorable. Already, he was nuzzling into my collar and purring.

“Anders…” I whined.

He looked at me with a grin—he knew I was softening already, I'm sure.

“I’m calling him Adrian,” Anders wrapped his arms around my waist so the cat was between our chests. “Then we’re all A-names.”

“The A-Team?” I laughed.

 

* * *

 

So six months later, we were a family of _three_ —Anders, Alistair, and Adrian-the-tabby. And things were good. We worked well together _and_ apart—but mostly together.

Ever the independent spirit, he _insisted_ on keeping that separate bedroom in _our_ apartment, although he normally ended up asleep in the crook of my arm.

One particular morning, I found him in there.

“Anders,” I called through the doorway, “what are you doing up? It's not even 5…” I blinked a few times, trying to clear up my vision.

“I didn't mean to wake you…” he mumbled.

Something wasn't right. He was sitting on the guest bed, bent over his iPad. The blue-green light illuminated tears against his cheeks. Heretofore, I hadn’t seen him cry—I’d made it my mission to _never_ make him sad.

“What's going on?” I asked, rushing to his side.

He pulled his sweater around his shoulders more tightly when I sat next to him.

“I got an urgent text in the middle of the night…” His voice was shaking. “It's from an old friend. Someone I used to _know_ ,” he paused, looking up at me, “—someone I used to _love_ has died…”

I grabbed him and pulled him into my chest. “I'm so sorry, Sweetheart, that's terrible.”  I rocked him gently.

“It's not just that… It's _how_ he died…” He was crying in earnest now.

I pulled back just a little, until I could see his face clearly. “What do you mean?”

“He had AIDS,” said Anders quietly. He looked terrified.

“Maker,” I breathed. My first instinct was to grab him more tightly and never let go, but I blurted, “I love you.” We hadn’t said that yet, but I'd _felt_ it. If ever there was a reason to be honest, it was this.

He looked up at me breathlessly, “I love you too.” He let his head fall onto my shoulder and cried. It was the closest I'd ever felt to another human being at that point, and yet, a small voice told me I should be _afraid_. Not for Anders—he was smart and resourceful and _careful_. But because of Cullen—that one encounter half a year ago cropped up in the back of my mind…

Something you may not know about HIV testing in Thedas (and elsewhere, I assume), is that antibodies don’t show up for three months after exposure. When Anders and I got tested together, it had only been six weeks since I was with Cullen… I hadn’t thought about it until that moment—until I was faced with a _real_ person dying around me. I wanted to say something, but I didn't know how to bring it up. So I just held him in the dark and planned to be supportive while my mind spun and whirled and hitched.

 

* * *

 

Three hours later we were on our way to the airport. I pulled some strings and got us two first class tickets on the first flight to Ostwick. It was only a short flight, but Anders was unravelling—I didn’t want him to have to do anything uncomfortable.

He boarded ahead of me. In the entryway, I pulled a flight attendant aside. “Can you please bring my boyfriend a _strong_ bloody mary the second you have a chance?”

She looked at me a little strangely, but nodded.

“He’s having the worst day ever,” I explained.

She smiled at me as I went to find my seat.

We were in 2A and 2B on a huge 757. The first class cabin had two aisles with seat groupings of 2, 3, and 2. Planes this large felt more like floating houses to me. I liked flying.

“Do you need anything from this bag?” I asked, before putting my suitcase in the overhead compartment.

Anders shook his head, but didn’t say anything. That smile I’d come to love had disappeared. I missed its infuriating qualities. I would have done anything to get him to laugh.

As I buckled my seatbelt, the flight attendant arrived with his drink. “Do _you_ want anything, Serah?”

“Just some water,” I answered. “Thanks.” I wanted to be as alert as possible in case Anders needed something.

“He was _young,_ you know,” said Anders suddenly.

I assumed he meant his dead friend— _lover_. “Oh?” I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to say. I guessed he just wanted to talk.

“Yeah…” he let his head drop onto my shoulder and stared at the seats in front of us. “He was younger than you are.”

“Cradle robber,” I couldn’t help the joke—we had a way of harassing each other that just _worked_.

He laughed quietly. I felt him shake against me. “I guess…” He lifted his head a little until his nose brushed my beard. “It just seems like a dream, you know? ...A _nightmare_.”

I turned my face toward him. He was so close, I couldn’t keep him in focus, but it didn’t matter. I loved him. “Do you want to tell me about him?”

Anders straightened and sipped his drink. He made a face, “wow, this is strong…”

I laughed.

“You won’t be jealous?” he asked. A hint of his usual smirk was only thinly veiled.

I shook my head. It was a _lie_ —I was already fuming with jealousy, but I wanted to be supportive. We hadn’t yet had _the_ conversation that all couples eventually have—the one where you try _not_ to cry while you hear about every past dalliance. This seemed like as good as time as any.

“His name was Garrett,” he began. His vision softened. He was looking at me, but probably not the finer points. “He and I met in law school.”

I looped my arm through the crook of his elbow. I wanted him to feel like I was _there_.

“...he was a _hell_ of an attorney,” he smirked. “He was the person who encouraged me to go and work with the foundation—it was _our_ first job collectively.”

“Did he know he was HIV positive then?” I asked.

“No,” Anders’ eyes snapped into focus. He looked vaguely offended. “He just cared about the community. He was _fine_.”

“I see,” I said gently. I didn’t mean it to come out like an accusation, but he clearly took it that way—as if Garrett was _bad_ or _damaged_.

“Anyway,” continued Anders, “when I decided I had had enough of living in a one-room flat and never knowing _how_ I was going to pay my rent, Garrett told me I was a traitor.”

I bit my bottom lip and squinted. I couldn’t imagine _anyone_ thinking Anders wasn’t _committed_ enough.

“...and I _tried_ to stick it out—for him—but I could see the writing on the wall: the organization was failing. It was full of corporate corruption,” he added, “we weren’t helping the _people_ anymore—it would take more extreme measures to do that.

“One morning, I came into work and found out that a pet case of mine had been shelved,” he was gesturing now—as if reliving it. “I freaked out— _screamed_ at our boss. Garrett pushed me into my office and slammed me against a wall. He was _so_ angry. He told me that my methods would never work and I might as well leave before I hurt anyone else...”

I took a steadying  breath. I didn’t like the thought of anyone getting rough with Anders. He could take care of himself, but when _I_ touched him, I was always so gentle.

“I pushed him off of me and started packing my things,” continued Anders. “We shouted at each other and somehow I ended up with a black eye.” He shuddered.

I was furious. I found myself gripping the edges of my chair for stability. How could I be expected to celebrate the life of someone who _abused_ my boyfriend?

“...that was the last time I ever saw him,” he choked on the words, a little sob escaping. “I left that _very_ day and changed my life. At the time I felt justified—like I was escaping—but _now_ …” he trailed off.

I wrapped my arms around him and kissed his forehead. “You did the right thing,” I assured him. “You couldn’t stay with him after that—after he _did_ that.”

Anders shrugged. It only made me hug him tighter. People were staring—I could tell—but I didn’t give a shit. This was what love looked like.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PSA: that little tidbit about HIV testing in Thedas is true about HIV testing IRL... Safety first, people.... seriously.


	12. Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair and Anders arrive at the memorial. Their plan is intact until someone unexpected arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John Irving, who is my favorite author, says he creates characters he loves and then does HORRIBLE things to them... that's what makes a good story. This one's for you, John. ;)

At the rental car counter, Anders leaned into my shoulder. His hand plunged into the back pocket of my jeans. Some asshole in our periphery pointed, but I ignored it.

Keys in  hand, we headed toward the parking structure.

“We’re only about fifteen minutes from where the memorial is going to be,” he said seriously. He’d put on his legal face—he looked stern. It was better than how broken he’d seemed on the plane, even if it did make me feel insignificant.

“I’ll drive,” I offered.

He nodded and threw his bag in the trunk.

“Should we check into the hotel first?” I asked.

“There isn’t time,” he answered. “I’ve been texting with Garrett’s sister—she’s having a few of his closest friends at her house before the memorial. I’d like to be there, if that’s okay with you.”

“Oh,” I put the key in the ignition, but didn’t back up. “Would you rather do that alone?” I wasn’t sure if he’d want to bring his—relatively new—boyfriend to something like this.

“Maker, _no_ ,” he said seriously. “I want you next to me every second of every hour for the next three days.”

He sounded scared, but I smiled. I wanted him to feel cared for.

“Garrett’s sister’s house it is, then,” I backed up and started down the street.

“She’s called Bethany,” he added. “Take the next exit onto the highway.”

I nodded. My hand was resting on the shifter between us. I kept it there whenever I drove because my car at home was a standard. Even in an automatic, I couldn’t break the habit. Anders slid his hand onto mine and squeezed.

“I love you,” he whispered.

I looked at him in stuttering bursts, whenever it seemed safe to glance away from the road. I’d never seen anyone so _good_ and _kind_ in my life.

 

* * *

 

Anders knocked on the door gently. The woman who opened it was even younger than I anticipated—she must have been Garrett’s _little_ sister.

“Beth,” he instantly hugged her on the stoop. I was left standing there awkwardly. I wasn’t sure if I should look at them or not.

“This is Alistair,” he said, when they separated.

I shook her hand. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

She nodded and opened the door to us. On the other side, the foyer and open living room were filled with murmuring people. Some had tears in their eyes, others were laughing ironically. _One_ voice stuck out—louder and smoother than the others.

“When I first met Garrett, I was working on my dissertation,” he said. “I had never been in the Free Marches before… I didn’t know _anyone_ … and here was this great guy—ready to take on the world…” the voice trailed off—disappeared into the hum of the crowd—but I _knew_ it. I would _never_ be able to forget _that_ voice.

 _Oh shit_.

“Anders,” I said suddenly, “there’s something I need to tell you…” I gripped both his hands and tried to lean in close to whisper, but someone else clapped him on the back before I could finish and we were thrown into more introductions. This time I was, “ _my boyfriend_ , Alistair.” It was not comforting, though. In this very room was my _non-ex-boyfriend, basically nothing ever, almost nemesis,_ **Cullen**.

 

I tried to avoid that side of the room, but it was _impossible_. Anders knew _everyone_. It wasn’t a surprise that everyone wanted to hug him—he was the sweetest person I could imagine. When we finally approached Cullen, he was leaning nonchalantly against a huge wooden fireplace. He was wearing a purple-ish button down with a tweed vest. He was imposing and austere—easily the most handsome person in the room. I wanted to _die_.

“Anders,” he said, turning. He didn’t look up at me until he’d released Anders from a tight hug. When he did, I blinked a few more times than was necessary.

“This is my boyfriend, Alistair,” said Anders. He wrapped his arm around my back and pulled me forward. I wasn’t specifically _trying_ to resist, but I made it harder for him than it usually would have been. I was getting ready to spill the beans—’ _this is **the guy** who ruined my life_ ’—but I was preempted.

“Hi, I’m Cullen,” he said, extending his arm. It reminded me so much of that ridiculous handshake on the worst day of my life: an overcorrection to avoid suspicion. This was even _worse_ —he was going to pretend not to _know_ me.

“Nice to meet you,” I said. I don’t know _why_ I didn’t correct him right there. I _should_ have. The introduction was tantamount to lying to Anders—he didn’t need that _today_ , of all days. He deserved better.

“Are you an attorney too?” asked Cullen. His upper lip curled. That fucking expression he used to make when we were together—the one that meant he was going to do something rough— _horrible_.

“He’s not,” answered Anders. He smiled up at me with something like pride, “he’s a _writer_.” He winked at me almost imperceptibly—a secret gesture that said, ‘I know your insides; I _believe_ in you.’ I could have vomited.

“Oh really?” asked Cullen, “What have you written? Anything I would have heard of?” It was a dare—a threat.

I opened my mouth, but wasn’t sure what to say—I started to equivocate, but Anders interrupted me.

“Sorry, Cullen,” he put up a palm between us, “I see Garrett’s parents.” He looked at me gravely. “Will you just give me one second?”

I nodded.

“A _writer_ , huh?” whispered Cullen once we were alone. His tone was sarcastic.

“Shut up,” I rolled my eyes.

“Ooh,” his brows pulled together, “sore spot, I see.”

“You know very well it is,” I said through gritted teeth. “How’s Icis?” I asked venomously. I had noticed his wedding ring when we first walked over.

“Do you _really_ want to talk about that?” he asked me darkly.

“No,” I answered.

“Good, because I’d rather hear how you met Anders,” he smiled charmingly. I didn’t like the way he said Anders’ name—I didn’t want that name anywhere _near_ his mouth.

“He sued me,” I said.

“Well, you always did like a challenge,” scoffed Cullen.

I rolled my eyes, “how long are you going to be here?”

“Until the end of the memorial and funeral—three or four days?” he answered.

I grit my teeth. Anders was definitely going to need to be here the whole time—I could see that now—he knew _everyone_. Across the room, I could see an older woman hugging him. I assumed she was Garrett’s mother. She was softly sobbing into Anders’ shoulder.

“ _Enough_ time,” added Cullen. He sneered at me.

“What the fuck does that mean?” I whispered. I’d leaned closer to him to avoid having our conversation be made public, but I regretted it now. He smelled like every memory I had.

“No need to pretend, Al,” he licked his upper lip. “Meet me later?” he looked both ways before sneaking a plastic room key into my breast pocket.

“Are you out of your mind?” I asked. My eyes were probably as wide as saucers. “I’m in a relationship.”

He raised an eyebrow at me, “That’s never stopped you before.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but promptly closed it. Anders was back at my side.

“Garrett’s mom wants to meet you,” said Anders. “Cullen, let’s do brunch together tomorrow, okay?”

Cullen nodded like he hadn’t a care in the world.

“Is Icis with you?” asked Anders.

“Not this time,” he answered.

“Pity,” he turned to me, “He has the most wonderful wife… you would _love_ her.”

I swallowed hard.

“Well, it will just be the three of us, then,” he smiled. “I’ll make a reservation at Collela’s. It used to be _our_ place—” he looked around the room as if Garrett’s ghost could hear him. “Bye, Cullen.”

 

* * *

 

The rest of the day, I tried to be supportive, but my mind was working overtime. I said hello to everyone and tried to remember all the names. Most of all, I just tried to stay connected to Anders. The more people we met, the tighter he gripped my hand or my waist or the crook of my arm. I knew he was hurting. When we finally got back to the hotel, he started to let himself relax a little.

“Tomorrow’s going to be a really tough day,” he said. He was looking at himself in a floor length mirror as he undressed. He wasn’t really talking to me, but he wasn’t talking to himself either. Maybe he was talking to Garrett.

“I’m sorry,” I wrapped my arms around his waist and looked at him in the mirror. We swayed for a while, not saying anything.

“Thank you,” he finally said. He turned in the circle of my arms and kissed me. It was hard and deep and full. Like every bit of his sadness was wrapped into it. “For everything…”

Our eyes were still closed when our foreheads pressed together. I could feel him smiling against my lips.

“Especially for meeting all those people today,” he ducked out of grasp and pulled his pants off as he headed toward the big bed in the center of the room. “That was a _lot_ ,” he almost laughed.

I smiled and followed suit, undressing and crawling into the other side of the covers. The sheets were cool and smooth. All I wanted was to be next to him—completely attached. I curled myself into his side, resting my head on his chest.

“Tell me what you thought of everyone,” he said.

“Everyone?” I smirked. “There were a lot of them… You say the name and I’ll tell you what I thought.”

He laughed—it was good to hear. “Okay… what about Bethany?”

“I thought she was really nice—it seems like she must have been really close to him,” I answered.

“That’s definitely true,” he said, “they used to fight a lot, but he really loved her.”

I rolled over him and propped myself up on an elbow so we could look at each other.

“What about Flora?”

“Who was that?” I asked.

“Our boss,” he reminded me.

“Oh… she seemed _terrifying_ ,” I said seriously.

“That’s true… when she hugged me, it felt like a boa constrictor…” laughed Anders.

“Another one,” I bated.

“What about Cullen?” asked Anders. His eyebrow raised. “He was that guy who asked what you did for a living…”

I cut him off, “I know who he was.”

“Of _course_ you do…” he kissed my chin playfully. “He’s ridiculously handsome, right?”

I seethed.

“There is a rumor that he was hooking up with Garrett shortly before he was diagnosed…” said Anders seriously. “If that’s true, I hope he’s _okay_.”

My mouth was a little dry. “Who told you that?”

“Beth,” he answered. His face had gone pale. “She said they were _in love_. He was planning to leave his wife, apparently.”

I couldn’t form words. There were so many thoughts floating around in my head; I couldn’t organize any of them.

“That’s why I asked him about his wife,” admitted Anders. “I wanted to see what he’d _say_.”

“She’s pregnant,” I blurted.

Anders looked at me incredulously. “How do _you_ know that?”

It was time—come clean now or never. In the past, I would have _lied_ —said I’d overheard that tidbit while Anders was consoling Garrett’s mother—but I was in love now. This was the first moment I realized it—being with Anders had changed me… _for the better_.

“I _know_ him,” I admitted.

Anders backed up from me so he could lean against the headboard. “What do you mean you _know_ him? You introduced yourselves to each other like strangers this afternoon.”

“I’m sorry,” I said seriously. I sat up and rested my hands on his kneecaps. “I _tried_ to talk to you… I _should_ have tried harder…”

“Maker,” he said quietly. I could tell he was putting the pieces together. “He’s _the guy_ …”

I bit my lip. There was no arguing. I let my head hang and nodded feebly.

“Holy fucking shit,” he said. He stood suddenly and started throwing my things into a suitcase. “Get out.”

“What?” I asked stupidly.

“Get the hell out of my room,” he said to me.

I almost argued that it was technically _my_ room, but I knew it wasn’t the time. “Anders— _please_ , I should have told you before, but he was standing there… being so cruel… pretending not to _know_ me…”

“And so you went along with it?” Anders was indignant. “That sounds exactly like the kind of thing you’d do if you were still in love with him.”

He paused to look at me. We stood absolutely still.

“ _Are_ you?” he asked. “Are you in love with him?”

I looked down at the sheets that were pooling at my waist. They were intricately embroidered. My eyes involuntarily darted from stitch to stitch.

“Fuck,” said Anders. He dropped his face into his hands. His hair fell limply over his eyes. “Get the _fuck_ out. I need some space.”


	13. Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair finally confronts Cullen. It's scary; it's horrible; but he's not the same man he was--he's stronger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I hugged him like he was my life preserver."

The elevator to the lobby seemed to be moving at a glacial pace. I used the time to search for flights back to Denerim. There weren’t any scheduled until tomorrow. _Fuck_.

At the lobby, I stepped out and found a seat next to a grand piano. The pianist was playing a series of vaguely recognizable love songs. It was a lovely hotel—the style was so different from anything we had in Ferelden—it was decidedly Marcher architecture. A fountain sprung from the center of the room and soared up several stories. I let my eyes lose focus over the water.

A pair of hands were on my shoulders a second later. I flailed, springing out of the chair and retracting my head.

Cullen was laughing at me. He sidestepped the chair. “I _knew_ you couldn’t stay away,” he said.

“ _What_?” I squinted at him. Then, remembering the keycard in my pocket, I explained, “I didn’t come here to see _you_ ,” I handed him the key. “I’m staying here…”

“Oh…” he shifted his weight and looked over both my shoulders. “Where’s Anders?”

The world was too heavy. Every time I saw Cullen, my life turned instantly into shit.

“He’s upstairs,” I answered.

“Doing what?” asked Cullen. He stepped closer to me and cocked his head to the side. It was a gesture of familiarity, but it made my skin crawl.

“Probably packing up my things…” I mumbled.

Cullen squinted at me. “What did you do?”

“I told him the truth,” I answered. Cullen had been advancing on me slowly the entire time we were talking. I backed up a little.

“Wow,” Cullen rubbed the back of his neck with his palm. “I think you might need a drink…” He gestured to a lowly lit bar on the other side of the lobby. Against my better judgment, I followed him over there.

It was strange sitting next to him. It hadn’t actually been very long since our last rendezvous, but we hadn’t spoken—that was the difference. _Before_ , he was the person I called or texted every day. In the last several months, there had been nothing but silence. In some respects, I felt like I was talking to a ghost.

“So are we going to actually _ignore_ what happened the last time we saw each other?” I asked. I had nothing to prove to him—I was at rock bottom already.

“I guess not,” he answered. He was swishing a deep red merlot around his wine glass.

“Okay,” I took a deep breath and tried to decide what was most important to ask first. “Are you still with Icis?”

“Yes,” he answered.

“ _How_?” I asked. I couldn’t _believe_ she would have just forgiven him.

“She’s a better person than _we_ are,” he answered. “And she wants me around for Mia…”

“Who is Mia?” I asked stupidly.

“My _daughter_ …” Cullen raised an eyebrow at me.

I realized that in my mind Icis would _always_ be pregnant. This offspring had no bearing on _my_ reality. I just remembered Icis crumpled in that doorway.

“But Al,” he brushed a hand through his curls, “that doesn’t change anything—between _us_.”

My eyes widened, “Are you serious? The last time I saw you, you told me I had to _leave_ after you told me you loved me! You shielded her from me like I was a _monster_."

“Al,” Cullen raised an eyebrow, “what else could I have said in that scenario? I had to make sure Icis _thought_ we were finished.”

I felt dizzy. I sucked in a slow breath to steady myself. “You _had to_?! Cullen—you didn’t _have to_ do anything…”

He opened his mouth, but I didn’t let him speak—I had to know something much more important. “Is it _true_?” I paused, “...that you were having an affair with _him_ —Garrett?”

Cullen’s eyes widened fractionally. “Where did you hear that?”

It _was_ true, then.

“Were you together when we were?” I asked.

“ _Who_ told you that?” he repeated.

“Anders,” I answered. “Apparently _everyone_ knew. He thinks you were _in love_ with him—you were going to break up your marriage.” Saying it out loud felt different than thinking it. It hurt _so_ much. No matter how complicated the situation was, I always thought that if he were going to get divorced it would be _for me_. This proved that wasn’t true.

Cullen swallowed more wine and looked around the bar furtively.

“And all of that shit _hurts_ ,” I continued, “but not as much as it scares me—are you _okay_? Are you _healthy_?”

“I don’t have to talk to _you_ about this,” said Cullen.

His avoidance made me even more scared. I pictured us in that hotel room in Haven—laughing, making love. How could he _do_ that to me?

“Did you _know_ he was sick?” I asked.

“No,” answered Cullen, “no one did… least of all _me_.”

“Were you at least _safe_?” I asked. I was scared of the answer. 

He looked up at me with those perfect amber eyes—eyes I used to _dream_ about—and I knew instantly. _Shit_.

“I’m going to have to get re-tested… tomorrow,” I mumbled. The most infuriating part of all was that it _could_ have been avoided. If Cullen had just been strong enough—brave enough—to be _out_ , he wouldn’t have had to _hide_ like this. None of this would have happened in the shadows. It wouldn’t have been rushed and dangerous and secretive.

“I’ll go with you,” offered Cullen.

I looked up at him with new eyes. “You’ll do what?”

“I’ll go with you,” he repeated. “We shouldn’t have to do that _alone._ ”

“You mean _you_ shouldn’t.” My voice was full of venom.

He put a hand on top of mine, where it was resting against the bar. “I’m really _sorry_ , Al.” His expression looked genuine—like a Cullen I _used_ to know.

Before I could say anything, my heart sank. Over his shoulder, approaching us from the lobby, was Anders.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I breathed. I scrambled to pick up my coat and throw money onto the bar. Cullen looked bewildered.

“Anders!” I yelled. He wasn’t running, exactly, but he was walking fast. I caught him easily.

“ _What_?” He looked so angry there were tears in his eyes.

“Please, stop,” I said. I put both hands on the caps of his shoulders and leaned into his face. We were in the middle of the lobby, people passing on both sides and staring, but he was the only person on earth to me. “I love you.”

“How _dare_ you say that to me?” said Anders. A tear finally fell onto his cheek.

“Because it's _true…”_ I managed.

“Then what the fuck are you doing here _with him_?” He asked indignantly.

How could I explain it? _Trying to figure out if I've given you a fatal disease._

“I am terrified,” I said finally.

He didn’t say anything, but he deflated a little—his chest caved in under the weight of my hands on his shoulders.

“When I was with Cullen…” I began, “I think that was the same time he was with Garrett. I had no idea, of course…” I let my eyes roam the corners of the lobby—as if some answer would present itself in its heights.

“Holy _shit_ , Al,” he grabbed me; pulled me against his chest. Suddenly, _he_ was comforting _me_. How had that happened? I wasn’t going to argue, though. I hugged him like he was my life preserver.

“What do you _need_?” he asked me. His lips were so near my ear, I could feel them form each word.

I didn’t know. At that time that Anders and I got tested together, I knew it hadn’t been long enough to be _sure_ about my status, but I _wasn’t_ worried—I had _no idea_ Cullen was sleeping with anyone but me. Truthfully, I didn’t even think he was sleeping with _Icis_. He referred to their marriage as if it had _died_ ages ago. Hence my surprise when I discovered her pregnancy. Now, I knew better.

“I just… I could never live with myself if I did that to you,” I stammered. “I don’t even care about myself at this point.” It was true—I didn’t.

“Well, fuck _that_ ,” said Anders. He pulled back until he could see me. “I’m not going to sit by your bedside while you die on me.” His face was ashen, but he almost smiled.

Cullen was next to us suddenly. Anders turned to face him—he looked like he was in court. “Well?” he prompted.

Cullen shrugged. I knew him well enough to know it was a calculated gesture—to look nonthreatening—not because he actually didn’t know what to say.

Anders had detached from me, but his fingers were still interlaced with mine in between us. It felt like a lifeline.

“We’re going to have to talk about this… all three of us,” said Anders.

Cullen nodded. He wiped a palm across his forehead, pushing a few curls back.

I couldn’t _imagine_ what there was to say, but Anders tugged on my hand and I followed. We found a low table in the corner. It was a rounded booth—very secluded.

Cullen was across from us. Although the bench was a circle, I’d clumped myself as close to Anders and as far from Cullen as I possibly could.

“So you _were_ with Garrett?” asked Anders. He wasn’t fucking around—I watched his jaw contract and relax around the words. The muscles rippled angrily, but his voice was steady and calm. I’d seen a lot of depositions, but I’d never seen him in court—he must have been _fantastic_ in front of a jury.

Cullen nodded.

“For how long? _When_?” asked Anders.

Cullen looked at me for the first time since we sat. I looked away reflexively. I didn’t want to _see_ him say this part.

“On and off for the last eight or ten months,” answered Cullen. “It started just before _we_ —” he cleared his throat, “Alistair and I… stopped seeing each other.”

I’d guessed that from our earlier altercation—but _hearing_ it hurt like I didn’t expect. I _inhaled_ some scotch and thought I might choke to death right then. It seemed a welcome alternative to this conversation.

Anders rubbed a hand along my back as the coughing quieted, but he kept talking. “And did you know he was _ill_?”

“No,” answered Cullen. He looked at me again, “I told Alistair that earlier and it was _true_.”

“And we’re supposed to take your _word_ for it?” I asked suddenly. I guess I was angrier than I realized. “Experience has taught me that you _lie._ ”

Anders looked at me critically, but Cullen raised a hand to him.

“It’s okay… he’s _right_ ,” said Cullen.

“Why did you do it, Cullen?” I asked desperately. It was a stupid question, but I needed to know… was _anything_ he ever said to me true?

“What do you mean?” he asked.

I felt my eyes open to their widest, “Why didn’t you just _tell_ me you didn’t love me?! Why didn’t you break it off with me?” I almost yelled. In my periphery, I saw Anders wince.

Cullen was quiet for a long time. We waited expectantly.

“Because that wasn’t true,” he finally said. It was barely a whisper—unbelievably quiet. “It _still_ isn’t.”

I threw my head into my palms and anchored my elbows against the table in front of us. This was too much. “What the _fuck_ does that mean?” I growled into my hands.

“It means you still have shit to talk about,” said Anders. His voice was resigned. He started to get up.

“No, stop,” I said. I grabbed for him, but he shook me off.

“I need some time,” he said seriously. “Please…” As I watched him walk away, I felt like a part of me was dying.

 

“Al,” began Cullen. He scooted around the booth so he was _very_ close to me—closer than he ever would have sat to me in the past. “I love you,” he said.

I thought my head was going to explode. “ _Why_ are you doing this to me?”

“Doing what?” he asked.

“Being _like this_!” I shouted. “I _just_ started to get over you. It was fucking hard, you know!” I pushed a hand through my hair and blinked pointedly, “I loved you for a decade. It’s not _easy_ to get over that.”

“I _know_ ,” he said. “Because that’s how long I’ve loved _you_.”

I pressed my palms against my temples and closed my eyes. Every memory we’d ever had together flashed before my eyes.

“Then why the hell were you _having sex_ with Garrett?” I asked finally. “...and _why_ did you keep screwing Icis?!” I breathed, “why didn’t you just _tell me_ you loved me? I would have left Bella in a second. It’s _mean_ to admit, but it’s _true_.”

“Al,” he laid his hand along the edge of my clavicle, “I just couldn’t—I wasn’t _ready_.”

“...and what about Garrett?” I asked. In the past, I would have let him get away with only half-answering my question, but I wasn’t that guy anymore.

“It didn’t mean _anything_ —I was just such a wreck about what was happening with you… I didn’t know _how_ to be in love with you,” his hand crawled up my neck and settled on the side of my jaw.

I closed my eyes painfully. “What do you _want_ from me?” I asked. I had an urge to shake his hand off, but I didn’t.

“Give me a chance to fix this,” he said.

“What does that _mean_ , exactly?” I asked.

“ _Be_ with me,” he said seriously.

My breath hitched. It was probably the first time in my life that I’d gotten him to be transparent with me. But _also_ for the first time, I didn’t want him. _I loved Anders._

“I’m sorry, Cullen,” I cleared my throat. “I can’t do that.”

His hand dropped limply.

My pulse quickened with realization. “I’m not in love with you anymore. You’re _too late_.”


	14. Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair tries to make things right with Anders. 
> 
> The next morning, he faces his biggest fear.

“Anders?” I called at the hotel room door. I didn’t open it, although I had a key. I wanted to respect his boundaries.

I heard him walk to the other side of the door. “What do you want?”

“Can you let me in, please?” I asked gently. I let my body lean against the door.

He was quiet for a while, but I could hear him breathing.

“...please?” I asked again.

He unlatched the door and I almost fell as my weight shifted. “Can we talk?” I asked, crossing the threshold.

He turned away from me and started walking toward the small table at the far end of the room. “I just ordered room service—I didn’t get anything _for you_. We can talk while I wait for it.”

Well—that was _something_. I sat across from him at the little table and cleared my throat. “I talked to Cullen,” I began.

He nodded calmly.

“He told me he’s in love with me—still—” I felt horrible even saying this aloud, but I knew it was necessary to set up the rest of this conversation. “...that he never loved Garrett at all…”

Anders rolled his eyes.

“...and he wants to _be_ with me—finally,” I continued.

Anders eyed me warily, “ _And_?”

I leaned into the table. I wished I could reach him, but he’d set up the chairs in a protective configuration that kept me at arm’s length.

“...and I told him I don’t want that anymore,” I said seriously. “I love _you_.”

He didn’t say anything, but I watched his jaw tighten.

I had to get to him—I pushed my chair back and kneeled in front of him on the floor. My hands found his knees and wrapped around to the back of his thighs.

“I love you,” I repeated. “Like I’ve never loved anyone in my life.” I let my cheek fall onto his lap and breathed. I had to _wait_ now—there was nothing else I could say.

He let me sit there like that until the room service came. He didn’t say a _word_ until we heard the knock on the door.

“Just _sit_ in that chair,” he stood, shaking me off.

I have always found room service delivery to be a little awkward—especially late at night. Invariably, the bed sheets are pulled back—ours were still a mess from lying between them earlier. The people staying in the room never have shoes on; the server _always_ does. It feels _invasive_ , despite the delight of eating in bed without worrying about getting crumbs everywhere.

The server entered the room and smiled broadly, although I’m sure he thought it was as strange as we did. The tension in the room was palpable. I just sat there and tried not to blush as he decanted the wine Anders had ordered. It was a vintage I knew— _very expensive_. The server was shaking slightly as he uncorked the bottle. What you’re trying to avoid, of course, is getting pieces of the cork inside or, _even worse,_ breaking the cork in half so you can't get to the wine at all. Luckily, he managed it without any mishaps.

“Is there anything _else_ I can get you?” he asked hesitantly. I suspect he thought he’d accidentally brought up only _half_ the order—there was clearly no food for me.

“We’re fine,” said Anders flatly. He took the check from him and signed it before ushering the man out.

Anders picked up the wine and tasted it almost immediately.

“I think you’re supposed to let that one breathe for half an hour,” I suggested.

He scoffed. “I don’t give a shit. I only bought it so _you’d_ have to pay for it.”

I wanted to hug him—I wanted to do _anything_ that put us in contact. I thought the intensity of my love for him might radiate through me—or something _stupid_ like that… it had been a long night. I started to stand.

“Hey,” he raised his free hand toward me. “Stay _right there_.”

“Okay,” I mumbled, sitting back down in my chair.

He began to pace. “You need to listen to me.”

I nodded.

“I have learned three things in the last twenty-four hours,” he began. “One: my first serious boyfriend is _dead_. Two:” he made a face at me, “my _current_ serious boyfriend has a propensity for lying.” He blinked like it was painful. “And three: your old flame is apparently still in love with you.”

I swallowed hard. He’d dissected the whole thing in such an analytical way—it almost hurt _more_ without the emotional envelope I enclosed everything in.

“...and _now_ ,” his voice had reached a pitch I’d never heard—high and haunting. “I’ve learned a _fourth_ thing: I might be dead before we’re old.” He paused and looked _right_ at me, “ _You_ might be dead before we’re old.” He drank the rest of the wine in his glass like it was a shot and immediately poured another one from the decanter.

“Am I allowed to get up yet?” I asked. There was a joke in there somewhere, but neither of us laughed.

He nodded.

I crossed to him and took the wine glass out of his hand. I set it down on the table and grabbed both sides of his face.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “All of this is so messy and horrible and _dangerous_ …” I gasped—I didn’t realize how close I was to losing it until I heard my own voice. “When we left home this morning, all I wanted to do was support you and somehow we’re in this nightmare... and I _know_ it’s all my fault.”

Anders eyed me warily, but he didn’t try to pull out of my grasp. “You’re not _wrong_ …”

I wasn’t sure what that meant. I decided to wait him out.

Eventually, he spoke—more of a whisper, actually. “I can’t _do_ this tonight.” His eyes were glassy. “It’s too much…” He let his body fall into my chest and he sobbed.

I’ll always remember that night for a lot of reasons—discovering that I’d been right about Cullen all along, coming to terms with the true _end_ of that relationship, facing my own mortality—but _most_ of all, I remember the way Anders _fell_ into me. For a few seconds, I was the only thing in the world holding him up. Falling in love with Anders wasn’t gradual. It wasn’t stretched out over the course of a decade. It wasn’t fraught with emotional turmoil or grief. It was sudden. It was swift. It was inevitable. If I believed in such things, I would say it was _destiny_.

           

We crawled between the covers and turned on the TV.

“Crime shows or Animal Planet?” he asked.

“Crime shows,” I answered.

Anders turned off the bedside lamp and leaned against the headboard. He pulled his food tray onto his lap.

“Do you want half of this?” he asked me.

I smiled. “Yeah.”

So we sat there—eating room service in bed, laughing at the absurdity of how the justice system is depicted on TV, and elbowing each other for control of the remote on the _worst_ day of our lives. And that’s when I _knew_ : if we could get through _this_ —we could get through _anything_.

 

* * *

 

**The next morning**

The three of us sat in the waiting room in a line. The air smelled of bleach and despair. As we waited, no one spoke. I was sitting in the middle, so I could see their expressions in my peripheral vision on both sides. Anders was calm—he’d done this a bunch of times… often just to give someone moral support. Cullen, by contrast, was sweating.

Anders and I hadn’t talked yet. This morning we’d brushed our teeth and changed our clothes without speaking. It wasn’t tense—it was survivalist. We’d held hands in the elevator on our way to meet Cullen. When the nurse called him in the waiting room, he squeezed my shoulder. He was first.

Cullen and I looked at each other nervously as Anders disappeared through the security door. I could hear him chatting with the nurse—he was so _friendly_.

“Have you called Icis?” I asked him.

He nodded.

“I bet that was a horrible conversation,” I said sadly.

“Not as horrible as the one _we_ had last night,” he smirked. Even in the midst of all this darkness, he was wry and clever. It was one of the things I’d always admired about him—his personality was _pervasive_ : it cut through the bullshit of any situation.

“I’m sorry about that,” I said. I looked down at my palms and scraped my thumb over the calluses of my left hand.

“It’s not your fault,” he answered. He put a hand between mine to stop my fidgeting. “You were _right_ —I’m just too late.”

And that was _it_. The last decade and a half of wondering and heartbreak and anguish came to a screeching halt in three sentences. There were _larger_ things at stake. We chatted idly while I waited for the nurse to come get me.

On the inside of the testing facility—the _other_ side of that security door—things were a lot more bleak. I was led to the very back of the place: the last room on the left. On my way there, I passed a woman softly sobbing. I wondered what horrible news _she’d_ just received. I looked for Anders, but I didn’t see him anywhere.

“Have a seat on the table, please,” said the nurse. She smiled _a lot_ —more than I thought was appropriate for her job. Wasn’t she in the business of telling _young_ people they were at the end of their lives?

I sat and rolled up my sleeve. I watched a vein pulse wildly in the crook of my elbow. I imagined an internal physiological struggle between my own immune cells and HIV—even the anthropomorphized white blood cells didn’t stand a chance.

“Squeeze this little ball, but do not pump,” she instructed me.

It was yellow and smooth. I wondered what the _point_ of this was. I also didn’t know _how_ to ‘not pump.’ Didn’t that mean I should just squeeze it once and hold it indefinitely? I was _really_ fit at the time, but I doubted my ability to do that for the duration of the test. My forearm was going to start shaking. I pictured the needle coming loose and blood squirting all over the white curtain surrounding my testing station. The nurse would scream and pull an alarm that signaled hazmat responders. The headline in my paper the next day would read, “Local Editor infects dozens in HIV testing center tragedy.” The byline might say, “...he _still_ never wrote his novel.”

I was so entrenched in the fantasy I’d created that I didn’t even notice when she put the needle in. A tiny pinch—that was it. I watched as the vial filled. It reminded me of a _phylactery_. It was some kind of horrible medieval custom I’d learned about from Cullen a decade ago. People used to accuse others of using magic and take their blood to track them somehow. Cullen loved _ridiculous_ conspiracies like that. I smiled to myself and ignored a skeptical glance from the nurse. After all, I might be _dead_ soon—if I wanted to spend my last days entrenched in my imagination it was my prerogative.

“That’s it,” she said a moment later.

My eyes snapped up to hers. She was perversely smiling again—but at my vial this time. _Creepy_.

“It will be about a half hour before I have the results,” she explained.

I nodded. She clearly wanted me to sit on that table and wait, but I was nervous about Anders and Cullen. I wished I could see them.

“Carla?” I heard Anders in the hallway outside my room. “Did you see a redhead come in here?” he asked.

I smiled… he was asking for _me_. My heart fluttered—maybe he _did_ still love me.

“I’m here,” I called. It wasn’t particularly loud, but in the relative quiet of the clinic, my voice seemed thunderous. I blushed. As soon as he put his head around my curtain, I didn’t care, though.

“Hi,” he said. He smiled and snuck in to stand next to me. He let his thighs graze my knee where it hung over the side of the table.

“They let you out of your room?” I asked.

“I still know some of the staff… I used to send clients here all the time,” he explained.

“Oh…” I mumbled. I’d hoped he would tell me he was _done_ already—healthy and safe and ready for the rest of our lives. My mind hitched— _the rest of our lives_ —it occurred to me suddenly that I _wanted_ that.

“How are you doing?” he asked me more seriously. He leaned his face in toward mine.

“Okay…” I answered. “I’m a little worried, though.” I reached for his hand with both of mine. 

Anders not only let me hold onto him, but he put his other arm around me and pulled me against his chest. I wondered if that meant I was forgiven. I thought he might have been letting me off easy, considering the situation, but I wasn’t going to argue.

“I love you,” I breathed.

He laughed a little, “these situations really highlight what’s important, don’t they?”

I looked up at him, “What do you mean?”

“Well,” he turned and pulled a chair up next to the table. He sat on its edge. “I _could_ be really angry at you right now. Or you could be really angry at Cullen. Or we could all get into a fistfight… but none of that is happening… we’re all just here— _not_ killing each other.”

I nodded.

“...and I love you too,” he said. He brushed a hand through his hair. “If we can get through this, we can get through anything.” He stood and took a deep breath. It was alarming because it was _exactly_ what I’d thought last night.

“Anders?” a nurse poked her head in through the curtain. We both looked up at her in tandem. “Negative—as per usual,” she smirked at him.

“Thanks, Carla,” he said.

I jumped off the table, despite the instructions of my own nurse-vampire, and grabbed him. I kissed him so hard he almost fell backward.

“This means you’re probably fine, you know,” he said once I’d released him.

I knew he was right. We’d had sex hundreds of times in the last six months—it would be unlikely that he would be fine and I wouldn’t. That only left Cullen. I felt a little shiver crawl up my spine.

That same perversely happy nurse led us back into the waiting room. On the way there, I caught a glimpse of Cullen. He looked pale. I tried to catch his eye, but I failed.

 

The waiting on the front end of this test was _bad_ —but the waiting afterward was worse. It was a rapid response test, but it made thirty minutes seem like thirty days.

When my results came back negative, Anders kissed my cheek and whispered, “Told you.”

I tried to smile, but at the exact second, I saw Cullen through a crack in the security door. His hand was covering his mouth. He was looking at a short, dark-haired doctor in horror. He didn’t say anything to me—but I _knew_.

 


	15. Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair and Anders return home, but everything feels different. After a conversation with Icis, he remembers a time when everything seemed less complicated--when he only had to worry about being angry at Cullen, not deal with his eventual demise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Several memories in this chapter. Alistair likes to connect the past to the present--keep everything in perspective.

The next few weeks were really tough for everyone. We all returned to our respective homes, but things were _different_. Icis called me on the phone one afternoon. I almost threw up when I heard her voice on the other end.

“Alistair?” her voice was shaking, “I need to talk to you.”

“Okay…” I mumbled.

“Well,” she paused, apparently unsure how to start. “Mia and I are _okay_ —that’s what I wanted to tell you.”

“Oh,” I exhaled audibly, “that’s good—that’s _really_ good.”

“...but Cullen got the results of his first round of laboratory tests back…” she continued. “...and it isn’t good—it’s a lot more developed than anyone expected.”

I swallowed hard.

“Apparently his CD4 count is much lower than it should be—350 cells/mm3,” she paused, “everything’s progressing rapidly.”

I didn’t exactly know what that meant, but I knew I could ask Anders later. Besides, this conversation wasn’t about the numbers—it was about _a person_.

“Icis,” I croaked, “I’m so sorry.”

“...they’re giving him three years,” she finished.

“Maker,” I breathed.

She didn’t say anything else, but she kept inhaling like there were more words forthcoming.

“Is there something else?” I asked eventually.

“...I—” she interrupted herself, “I don’t _want_ to stay with him. I don’t think I should _have to_.”

My mouth was hanging open. It was a good thing she couldn’t see me. It took me a minute to collect myself. “Icis—you _don’t_ have to.”

She started crying instantly. She just needed someone to tell her—she didn’t have to be responsible for this asshole who’d ruined her life any more than _I_ did. Except even as I formed the thought, I knew I _would_ be responsible—I could feel it in my gut.

“Thank you,” she whimpered. “I need to _move on_. I knew you would understand—you’re the _only_ one.”

 

When I hung up, Anders was looking at me skeptically.

“What did she want?” he asked.

“Cullen’s dying,” I said. “Sooner than any of us thought.”

Anders pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“But that’s not why she called…” I explained. “She wanted to tell me that she’s going to leave him—not in so many words…”

Anders raised an eyebrow at me and sat down at the island counter.

“Why should she have to stay with him?” I said defensively.

He raised a palm in my direction. “I wasn’t arguing that. She _shouldn’t_.”

I relaxed and sat in the stool next to him. I let our knees slot together and wrapped my hands around one of his thighs.

“It’s just a _lot_ —he’s going to die a _horrible_ death, Alistair—alone,” said Anders.

His voice was clear and strong, but I could see the pain around his eyes. It was a death he knew all too well—he’d seen it too many times. I had been spared that particular horror.

“Will you help me?” I asked suddenly.

His eyes snapped into focus on my pupils. He seemed to be studying me.

“I need you,” I whispered, tightening my grasp on his leg.

He nodded.

It was a strange thing to ask the man I loved. ‘Please help me care for my dying ex.’ It certainly wasn’t a normal breakup. Of course, it had never been a normal relationship either.

 

* * *

 

On the subject of breaking up… it’s interesting how things change. I’ve always been a person who liked routines. During the years of my affair with Cullen, I used to get up in the morning and immediately check to see where he was. It sounds stalker-ish, I know. But it was kind of cute in a way. We’d added each other on Find my Friends and we could check in a hundred times a day we if wanted to. Something about knowing if Cullen was at work or if he’d just left his house—if he was probably sleeping or eating in a restaurant—it made me feel like we were connected.

Even on opposite sides of Ferelden we certainly stayed in contact. We talked every day in one form or another. He told me when he had dentist appointments, when he washed his car, or when he was planning to go on vacation. It went on like this for _years_ , so the morning when I woke up and looked at that app and didn’t feel a pang of sadness deep in my gut, I knew something had changed.

It was about two months into our separation. We hadn’t spoken. Not a single word of text or breath of speech. Anders and I had just moved into our apartment—everything with us moved _fast_. I was looking out that wall of windows in our bedroom one morning, deleting extraneous emails and checking twitter, when I saw that app. I opened it out of habit. Cullen wasn’t there, of course. I’d blocked him the moment I got home from that doomed trip.

Anders rolled into me, “hey… whatcha doing?” he mumbled.

“Have you ever used this app?” I asked him, pointing to Find my Friends.

“No,” he answered. “What does it do?” He yawned and propped his head on his hand.

“It just tells you where your friends are…” I explained.

“That’s creepy,” he laughed.

I blushed. “I think it’s sort of intimate, actually… to trust someone with your whereabouts.”

Anders pushed his hair back with his free hand and squinted at it. “Have you done this _before_?”

He could always see right through me. “Yeah…” I mumbled.

“And you want to erase that experience by making me _complicit_ in your neurotic stalking?” he laughed.

“Yes!” I rolled into him and kissed him before he could say anything else snarky _and_ insightful.

He pressed his tongue between my lips. His lips were so soft. But even softer was his countenance. He rolled and kissed and undulated toward me in a way that cut through all my defenses.

When we separated, I got up, turned on the shower, and _deleted_ the app. I didn’t need it anymore—not to be connected to my past _or_ to my future. Anders was sleeping in my bed—how much closer did we need to be?

 

So when Anders told me he’d help me deal with Cullen’s demise, I believed him—not because I could track his movements or keep tabs on his whereabouts, but because I _trusted_ him; because we were _one_.

“I just don’t know how to _be_ around him,” I said. I leaned my elbow on the countertop and let my torso slump. Our knees were still touching.

“Just be _normal_ —the last thing a sick person wants is for people to _act like_ he’s sick,” said Anders. His fingers were tracing the outline of my thigh muscles through my pants. It was absent, gentle, comforting.

“And what about when he needs more help?” I asked.

“We can handle that as it comes…” he answered. He gripped my leg a little tighter, which made me look up at him. “The most important thing is that we’re in this together… right?”

_Right._

 

* * *

 

The irony of this whole situation was that I’d already planned Cullen’s death— _in my novel_. Until this whole nightmare began a few weeks ago, I had been writing voraciously. With Anders’ support, I had almost finished the first draft. Half a year earlier he’d proven he was committed to me finishing, regardless of the subject matter.

 

“What are you writing?” asked Anders. He loomed over my shoulder. I cringed.

“Nothing,” I stammered. I tried to close the window on my screen, but I wasn’t quick enough.

“Is that a list of ways to kill the antagonist of your story?” he asked, sitting down next to me.

I blushed. “Yes…”

“Why?” He squinted. “I thought he was going to die of kidney failure.”

“It just doesn’t seem _mean_ enough,” I answered.

He laughed. “How’s that?”

“He was just so _horrible_ to me…” I mumbled. “I mean… to the main character.”

Anders rolled his eyes, “That slip was _too_ overt to be Freudian.” He smirked, “okay… let’s hear these death options.”

I had been embarrassed initially, but I was already coming around to the idea of sharing this with him. We were _new_ —we’d only been on a few dates… _this_ one had turned into a sleepover. But we’d _only_ slept. That morning I’d been disoriented. I’d peeked from under my eyelids and found that my face was squished into the crook of his arm. He smelled wonderful—he always does.

Now, for some reason, he’d decided to stay with me in my suite a lot longer than I anticipated. He’d been working on a briefcase full of papers all morning, largely ignoring me, so I thought it would be a good time to work on my novel.

“Well,” I cleared my throat, “The original way _was_ the kidney thing… and I don’t plan to change it… but I want to exercise my imagination and think of other ways to kill him.”

“What do you have so far?” he leaned in toward my computer screen.

“Car accident,” I read, “bombing, accidental electrocution, his wife runs him over with their car, suicide by jumping off a building, or—my personal favorite—alone and forgotten.”

Anders cracked a smile. “Alone and forgotten? That’s _harsh_ …”

“Of this whole list, I think it’s the most _correct_ —if the world were _fair_ , I mean,” I mumbled. I realized I was talking to myself more than I was talking to him.

“This guy really screwed you up, huh?” asked Anders.

I shrugged.

“Well, you wouldn’t be writing stories about his death if he hadn’t,” added Anders.

I let my head fall into Anders’ chest. He smelled even better now than he had this morning. It was like walking into an Orlesian parfumerie, but without the chemical overload that causes an instant headache.

“You’re adorable,” he said absently. He wrapped his fingers around the back of my neck as I breathed into his shirt. “What about mauled by a bear?” he suggested.

I looked up at him.

“...or brain tumor?” He raised an eyebrow at me.

I laughed, “What about my new boyfriend kills him for me?”

“You’d better be careful—I might do it,” he smirked and kissed the edge of my jaw.

 

* * *

 

Thinking back on it now it wasn’t funny. I wasn’t even sure if I should finish the novel now. We would never have suggested _this_ as an ending. It was too real—too raw. And it wasn’t fair—alone and forgotten would have been a relief compared to this.

“Should I call him?” I asked.

“Give him a few days,” cautioned Anders. “I bet he’ll call you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CD4 counts are the most important factor in determining if HIV has progressed to stage 3 infection (AIDS). There are LOTS of ways that people with HIV can survive now. Lots of people live with HIV for more than a decade... Cullen just might not be one of them. Normal CD4 values are 500-1600 cells/mm3. Below 200 cells/mm3 = AIDS. 
> 
> Just FYI... Spread knowledge.


	16. Sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair's 36th birthday comes around... it's the 14th of Kingsway, in case anyone wants to send gifts... Anders celebrates it in an unusual way. In the wake of Cullen's prognosis, he and Alistair begin to see each other as friends again.

**Several Months Later**

“Happy birthday!” yelled Anders.

I shot bolt upright in bed. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” I laughed. It was still dark out. “What _time_ is it?”

“4:30,” answered Anders.

“Maker,” I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, “what are you doing up?”

“I have to be in court at seven, but I wanted to make sure we got to celebrate before I left,” he crawled toward me across the comforter. It was cold in our apartment, I noticed. It was only Kingsway, but a hint of winter was in the air.

“Come over here,” I said. I pulled the blankets over our heads like a tent and tried to pick out his features in the relative dark.

“So, how do you _feel_?” he asked.

“Old…” I answered.

He laughed, “Maker… if I could be 36 again…” We had just celebrated his 39th earlier this year.

“I’m just kidding,” I said quietly. I nuzzled into the crook of his neck and kissed the skin. “I feel lucky, actually.”

“Oh yeah?” He pushed me backward and straddled me under the blanket. We were creating a lot of heat—his skin was slightly damp.

“Yeah,” I laughed. “I’m dating this guy… he’s like _gorgeous_.”

“ _How_ gorgeous?” bated Anders.

“Like… _a ten_ …” I was making a joke, but I meant it. Anders looked better every year. “I hope he doesn’t find out I’m here with _you_.”

Anders laughed. “Ooh, so we definitely shouldn’t tell him I’m doing this…” he kissed me, pressing his tongue between my lips. “Or this…” he licked a line from my clavicle to ear.

“Certainly not,” I mumbled.

“Or how about _this_?” He rose slightly and looked down to where we were connected. I was achingly erect, I noticed. He arched slightly so the skin of his hip touched me.

I shivered. “I’m sure I can just give him a blowjob later to make it up to him,” I laughed.

“ _He_ might hold you to that,” smirked Anders.

We let the laughing die off—I knew he needed to get going. The train to downtown was rather slow. It made a lot of stops at this time of day.

“What are you working on?” I asked him.

He let himself roll to my side. I wrapped my arms around his back and kissed his forehead.

“It’s an intellectual property dispute,” he began.

“— _boring_ ,” I interrupted. “I think you’re going to have to be sick today…”

He laughed and tried to pull away from me, but the more he struggled the harder I pulled him in.

“This is not fair,” he grumbled, “you are so much _stronger_ than I am…”

I laughed, “At least you’ll have someone to hold you up when you’re old…”

“When I’m old?” he asked. He was suddenly _still_ in the circle of my arms. My eyes had fully adjusted to the darkness under the blankets and I could see that he was wearing a surprised expression.

“Yeah… I mean, you’re kind of old _now_ , but I digress…” I couldn’t turn off the sarcasm.

“Oh stop it,” Anders trailed his fingertips along the edge of my jaw.

I smiled. “Yes. Even when you’re old…”

“Should we get _married_?” asked Anders suddenly.

“What?” I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly.

“Do you _want_ to marry me?” he asked again. He licked his bottom lip. He looked skeptical.

“Yeah, I do,” I answered.

“Okay then,” said Anders through a laugh. “I guess we’re doing this.”

It was the strangest proposal I’ve ever _heard_ of, but it fit. We were never very good at being serious, even when life was filled with turmoil.

“When?” I asked.

Anders let his face drop against my chest. I could feel how warm his cheeks were.

“Are you nervous!?” I asked teasingly.

Anders made a whining, growly sound that was mostly absorbed by my skin. “I’ve never been married before.”

“So why did you _ask_?” I laughed hard enough that my chest shook and I had to cough.

He sat up and pushed the blanket off of us. The extra heat instantly dissipated into the cold room and I felt my skin prickle in the air.

“I wasn’t asking, per se,” he laughed. “It just _sounded_ like that.”

“Well, it’s too late to back out now,” I kissed him. “It’s a done deal.”

“Maker, I’ve never wished I was a divorce attorney before…” he said to no one.

“Oh stop it,” I tackled him and rolled until I was pinning him to the mattress. “Seriously… do you _want_ to marry me?” I hovered just an inch over him—lips slightly parted.

He craned his neck to kiss me, “ _Yes_.”

“Let’s do it today,” I joked. “It would be a lot more fun than whatever boring legal thing you’re doing.”

“While I agree with you on principle,” said Anders, “I think I would like to have an _actual_ wedding.”

“You would?” I asked.

“I get that you already _had_ one,” said Anders.

He rested his palms on the tops of my shoulders and tapped his fingers rhythmically. I knew that meant he was nervous.

“That doesn’t matter,” I said. “Marrying you is something I actually _want_ to do…”

He laughed, but made a sad noise at the same time. “That’s _terrible_ , Al.”

I shrugged. “But seriously, I will have _any_ kind of wedding you want… unless you want me to wear a dress… I’m not up for that.”

He laughed again. My favorite thing about our relationship was all the laughing. We laughed every day—hard enough to shake our chests. Often, strongly enough to put tears in our eyes.

“I love you,” he said finally.

“I love you too,” I said. I rubbed my lips across his stubble and eventually kissed him again. “This is the best birthday _ever_.”

 

* * *

 

 

**The Following Weekend**

“I’ll race you,” I laughed, picking up the pace.

Cullen panted, “That’s not fair—you run all the time…”

I smirked and passed him around the corner. We were in the home stretch of a 3-ish-mile run. I could see his house in the distance.

When I reached the fence, I bent forward to catch my breath—I’d sprinted the last 200 meters. He joined me a minute later.

“Are you _trying_ to kill me?” he asked.

He was clearly kidding, but I felt sick hearing him say that—we both knew where this was heading. His face was gaunt and his skin looked a little yellow. The last few months had been hard on him.

“I just want to make sure you don’t slow me down too much when we run the 5k,” I joked.

I had registered us for an HIV awareness run. He thought it was _gauche_ , but he’d agreed anyway. I tried to get Anders to run it with us, but _he_ had an aversion to exercise. Although I scolded him regularly, I actually thought it was sort of endearing.

“Well, there is no chance I’m going to get fast enough to keep up with you before the race—we only have two weeks,” said Cullen. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and stretched his arms overhead.

“You couldn’t get fast enough if we had two _years_ ,” I poked an elbow into his side.

He laughed easily. He was handling all of this so much better than I would have.

I smiled, “Don’t worry—I'm sure there will be lots of other slow pokes on the course…”

He patted me on the back and smirked.

Things were weird these days. We had found some sort of tenuous rhythm in the weeks following his diagnosis. Anders was being an absolute angel about the whole thing. I wondered if I would be as graceful in his position.

We’d started to speak regularly. He’d call me up out of the blue to say hello or tell me about some new hobby he had. At first, it made me want to vomit when I saw his name across my phone’s screen, but now I enjoyed it. At times, I almost _forgot_ that I used to love him—I even sometimes forgot he nearly _ruined_ my life. Mostly, I forgot because I loved Anders so much. Even when I was with Cullen now, it was different. I didn’t feel that _exquisitely painful_ pull that used to cripple me. I thought of him like a nice, good-looking, running buddy. It was a _relief_.

“I have to tell you something,” I said suddenly.

He squinted at me.

“Anders and I are getting married,” I admitted.

I watched his expression change. It was as if I sucked the oxygen out of the air around him—his chest deflated and he folded his arms protectively across his chest.

“When?” he asked.

“Early next year,” I cocked my head to the side and tried to look contrite, although I had nothing to apologize for.

“I’m _not_ happy for you,” he said bluntly.

I blushed.

“But I get it,” he smirked. “Anders is pretty great…” He put a hand on my shoulder. “Congratulations?”

“Thanks,” without meaning to, I wrapped a hand around the back of his neck. “I’m not going to say anything ridiculous, like, ‘ _you have to be my best man_ ,’ or whatever _insensitive_ thing you said to me when you were marrying Icis…” I laughed darkly.

“I appreciate that,” he let his forehead fall against mine and closed his eyes. From this vantage point, his face was out of focus, but I could still make out lines of worry around his eyes—lines that weren’t there when I first met him. When we were young and still full of hope—before we’d almost _destroyed_ each other.

“I'm certainly not going to be offended if you say no…” I whispered, “but if you want to come… I'd love to have you there.”

Cullen nodded reluctantly. He turned his head slightly and pulled me into a full hug. I settled my face into the side of his neck. He was all stubble and rough skin. He wasn't _at all_ like Anders, whose facial hair was a work of magic, as far as I was concerned: it was full and thick, but soft.

“I’ll be there,” he said into the skin of my shoulder.

**_But he wasn’t._ **

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... just an update for all you avid readers: I have written a TON of stuff in this universe, much of which will not fit into this story because of pacing or thematic divergence. BUT... I've decided there is going to be a sequel. Stay tuned. :)


	17. Seventeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair finishes his book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it... the end of this story. I mentioned earlier that there is going to be a sequel... would it be easier for everyone if I just keep writing in this same story but label them "Sequel: One, Sequel: Two," etc? 
> 
> I totally love you guys and I'm soooo happy about all the wonderful things you've said while I was writing this. It has been a huge labor of love and self-discovery... :)

“This will be perfect for your book,” said Cullen. His voice was raspy and his mouth cracked around the edges. Thrush had taken hold and he had a hard time even swallowing water.

I smiled ruefully. “I would never have written this—I _still_ won’t. It’s too horrible.”

“...but the main character _does_ die, right?” he asked me.

“Yes… but not like _this_ ,” I answered. I gently squeezed his hand. It was laying on his chest limply. He looked so small—he’d lost weight so rapidly, even his face looked different.

“Would you let me read it?” he asked. “Before it’s done, I mean…”

I squinted at him. “You would want to? It’s _fiction_ , you know…”

He laughed meagerly. “I think it has enough factual, historical context that I can make an exception this time.” He smiled. “I still contend that the truth of this would make a better book, though.”

“Then _you_ write it,” I joked.

His smile faded. “I don’t think there’s _time_ …” he said seriously.

I swallowed hard. A lump was forming in the back of my throat and my eyes were glassy. He’d contracted an opportunistic infection—a type of pneumonia that made his coughing sound wet and become decreasingly productive. I’d cried so many times in the last week, I could barely stand it. He didn’t need to see me do that again.

I grabbed my laptop and quickly pulled up the draft of my novel—it was done, pretty much: it needed a few words here or there; a well-placed semicolon. I dropped the laptop on his rolling table and tilted it down so he could read it.

“You’re the only person I’m allowing to read this…” I said through a smirk. “It’s the least I can do for my _muse_ , I suppose.”

He smiled and reached up to rub my forearm.

Anders was in the doorway a moment later. “Hey, are you ready?” he asked.

I leaned into Cullen. “I’ve got to go… I’ll be back tomorrow, though, okay?”

Cullen nodded.

I kissed the top of his head and was gone.

 

* * *

 

He was dead a week later. I got the call at about 4am. Anders was asleep on my arm at the time. When I scrambled to answer the phone, my fingers were almost inoperably numb.

“Hello?” My voice was full of sleepy gravel.

“Alistair…” it was Icis. “He’s _gone_.”

I sucked in a breath that filled my chest with ice.

“Okay,” I managed. “What do you need me to do?”

“Nothing,” she said. “I just thought you should know first.”

“Thank you,” I mumbled.

“Alistair?” her voice turned up. “He finished the book, I think.”

“I see…” I swallowed a sob.

She hung up.

Anders had woken to the sound of my voice and my wild thrashing to get to the phone. He was sitting cross-legged, looking at me.

“I’m so _sorry_ , Love,” he said.

He opened his arms and I lunged at him. My entire body hurt like I’d been in a car crash. My face pressed against his chest and I wondered if I’d ever feel normal again.

“I know it hurts, but you’re going to recover, you know,” he said gently. It was like he read my mind. He was clever like that.

“ _How_?” I asked petulantly.

“With time…” he rubbed circles over my back. “...and with me. I’ll help you,” he kissed the top of my head. “After all, this fucking disease has stolen _both_ our first loves.”

I sat up at that. It was _true_ , but I hadn’t actively considered the parallel.

“It’s a good fucking thing we found each other, isn’t it?” he smirked at me. The left corner of his mouth pulled up more than the right, just like it always did.

“What’s that scar from?” I asked suddenly. I’d wondered about it since I met him, but I’d never actually asked.

He pulled a hand back and rubbed it. “It’s from Garrett.”

My mouth dropped open. “What the _fuck_?” I scooted closer and wrapped my arms around him—as if shielding him from the memory.

“It’s a reminder of why _my_ first love was a shithead,” he said plainly. “...and why my second love—my current and future one— _isn’t._ ” He kissed me. “ _You’re_ wearing scars too, you know… other people might not be able to see them, but _I_ can.”

I nuzzled into his neck. There was no way to be close _enough_ to him.

“But don’t worry—your secret’s safe with me, Love,” he cooed. He was rocking me gently.

“There’s going to be a funeral, you know,” I said. My thoughts were all disjointed and jumbled. I had nothing but non sequiturs.

“I assumed as much,” said Anders. He rested his head against the top of mine. “Will you need to say something?”

“Probably,” I mused. “Or maybe not… I don’t know…”

“Well, I’ll be there with you either way,” he said.

 

* * *

 

And he _was_ —on the day of the funeral, we walked from the car together. It was slightly misting in northern Ferelden. His hair was expanding in the humidity, although he kept tucking a few longer strands behind his ears.

“Are you ready?” he asked me.

“No,” I answered. I smiled and grabbed his hand. “But no one could be ready for this—it’s senseless.”

He nodded at me sadly.

After some discussion, Icis had agreed that I should give the eulogy. It was _weird_ —talking about Cullen in the past tense. I’d practiced for three days straight, but it didn’t feel any easier on the tenth time than it did on the first.

Anders stood near the front of the clumped mourners. He smiled at me as I took the podium.

“Hello,” I began. “Cullen was a hard person to _know_. He was impetuous and mercurial and sarcastic… and it was almost _impossible_ to tell when he was being serious,” I let some scattered laughter fade. “But underneath all that, he was gentle. He didn’t let it show, mind you. But there were a few conversations that convinced me…”

The people in the audience cried and laughed and sighed. I’m _told_ I did a great job, but I can’t remember a word of it. All I remember was the look on Anders’ face. He managed to look supportive and kind and gentle and all the things I never thought I deserved in a partner.

Anders is the best person I know—and he’s _mine_.

 

* * *

 

“I think that’s it,” I stretched my arms overhead and yawned. It was three in the morning, but I’d finally finished—the entire novel was done.

“Really?” asked Anders. He was in bed, but he had a hard time sleeping when I was writing nearby. I offered to go into the other room, but he never took me up on it because he was more disturbed by not knowing where I was than by my typing.

“Yeah,” I pushed save three or four more times—just to be safe—and then jumped into bed with him. I was still wearing boxers, which technically violated a no-clothing-in-bed-rule we had, but I was too excited to care.

“It’s done!” I laughed, “completely, one hundred percent, _done_.”

He rolled me onto my back and hovered over me. “Congratulations,” he whispered between kisses. “Are you going to let me read it now?”

I frowned. “You’ve heard all of it already.” I had read basically every section to him aloud during my editing process.

“But not beginning to end—not the _final_ version,” he corrected.

“I guess that’s true,” I felt hesitation creeping into my chest. I knew why, of course—that damned dedication page. I’d wrestled with putting it in there, but when Cullen was _gone_ , I was compelled.

“What’s the problem?” he asked perceptively.

“Nothing…” I groaned.

“Then why is your pride hard-on disappearing?” he smirked at me skeptically.

I blushed. “I guess that is a dead giveaway.” I picked up the blanket and looked at my softening penis disapprovingly. “Dude, you’re killing me,” I said to _it_.

Anders laughed.

“Just _don’t_ …” I interrupted myself. “—don’t read too much into the dedication…”

Anders raised an eyebrow. “I’m going to read it right now…” He kissed me again and hopped up out of bed, hurtling himself into my desk chair. I reached for him, but he slipped out of my grasp.

“ _To Cullen—I’ll never be the same without you_ ,” he read. “You’ll never be the same? What does that mean?” he asked. He was sitting on a folded leg, leaning into the screen. His chin rested gently against his fist.

“Well… it means that he changed me—for the better, I think,” I explained. “But I didn’t want it to sound like everything he did was _good_ or _okay_.

Anders chewed on his bottom lip. “It’s a little weak.”

I sat up and squinted at him.

“It seems a bit trite,” he critiqued.

I rubbed my face with both palms, then looked up at him, smiling lopsidedly, “Here I was—freaking out that I was going to hurt your feelings…” I laughed. “Little did I know you weren’t going to think it was _enough_.”

He spun in the chair so we were knee to knee. “I love you… I don’t mean to nitpick… this just seems like something important…”

I pulled the arms of the chair to roll him toward me. “It _is_ important—I’m just not sure how to put it.”

“Explain it to me and I’ll help you find the words,” he offered.

It was a strange offer, now that I think of it. _I_ am the writer— _not him_. I normally consider myself the keeper of _all_ the words… but he was right—I needed help.

“Well,” I cleared my throat. “Without all that turmoil I never would have been _ready_ for you…”

He quirked an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“If he hadn’t rejected me in that _horrendous_ way at exactly the time he did it, I wouldn’t have gone out with you…” I explained.

“Really?” he asked. “I’m sort of offended…” He smirked.

“I mean… I would have _looked_ at you,” I cupped his cheek in my palm. “...you’re gorgeous… but I wouldn’t have given it another thought.”

Anders nodded understandingly.

“So, in a way, he is responsible for the best thing that ever happened to me,” I explained.

“I’d like to think I had a _little_ to do with it…” laughed Anders.

I smiled. “And then… when he tried to fuck with me—with _us_ —in Ostwick, I never wondered about _this_ again,” I pointed to the few inches between us. “I knew right then and there that I was going to be with you for the rest of my life.”

He nodded and kissed me through his smile.

“Then why don’t you put it _this_ way?” He backed up and closed his eyes, choosing the perfect words. “To Cullen: it’s been an _education_ —one I’ll never forget.”

 

That’s what the dedication page says. It also has a list of charitable organizations that help people deal with their sexuality long before they end up in Cullen’s situation. Organizations that help people avoid the misery that Cullen’s secret— _my_ secret—caused for everyone. Organizations that help them live long, full, healthy, beautiful, lives. _Almost_ as beautiful as the one I get to live now… I’m a little biased, I guess.

 

_Thanks, Cullen._

 

 

**THE END**

 


	18. BOOK TWO: Parenting - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life after Cullen's death takes a turn Alistair never saw coming. 
> 
> \------------
> 
> (Reposted from The Review, since I'm combining these two stories now. See summary for more info.)

* * *

 

In the months after Cullen’s death, I did a lot of emotional reorganization. At first, I thought I was fine. I poured myself into the publication of my novel. My editor had seemingly endless notes to give me. But eventually, it was _done_ —there was nothing to do but wait for the reviews to start trickling in.

“I love you,” said Anders one morning.

I was too tired to say much of anything. I dragged myself toward the coffee machine and blinked. I’d managed to put on pants— _barely_. I was in the habit of sleeping late since Cullen’s death. That’s when I _noticed_ : Anders was standing between me and our main computer.

“I love you too…” I said skeptically. “What’s going on?”

I tried to look around him, but he moved with me.

“Don’t freak out,” he cautioned.

I scowled, “what is it?”

“It’s a review,” he breathed.

I sidestepped him and pulled my glasses off to look at the screen.

“The reviewer is an _asshole_ —don’t take it too seriously,” he mumbled.

[Mr. Theirin manages to create a _theatrical_ account of falling in love that occurs only in novels. Although his prose is _adequate_ , the story is less plausible than others of its genre. When the main characters are separated, the break is too abrupt. Similarly, when they are reunited, their emotions for each other seem too strong for a period of 10 years to have passed...]

I stopped reading.

“Fuck that guy,” said Anders encouragingly. He rubbed my back and kissed my cheek as I scanned the subsequent paragraphs.

“He thinks the story isn’t _believable_ ,” I said, still skimming the scathing text. “That’s ridiculous—this basically _happened_ to me. If anything, it’s _too_ autobiographical.”

“He doesn’t know your life, Love,” said Anders. He’d shifted his weight and was mouthing the skin of my bare shoulder. It was after 10am, but I hadn’t managed to get dressed in more than a perfunctory manner. He was in a full suit and tie already.

“I’m sorry, but I have to go,” he whispered into my ear.

I sighed.

“You should get out of the house—go for a run or something,” he suggested.

Without speaking, I whirled around in my chair and wrapped my arms around his waist.

“Sweetheart,” he said gently, “I _love_ you—you’re a wonderful writer. Don’t let one jerk ruin your day…” He kissed the top of my head and waved goodbye.

 

* * *

 

When I was alone I, inadvisably, re-read the review six or seven more times before finally throwing on a shirt and tying my sneakers in place.

“Ugh…” I grumbled to Adrian-the-cat. “Why are people so mean to your daddy?” I picked him up and squished him against my chest. Despite the fact that he was primarily Anders’ cat, he was very tolerant of my antics. I constantly harassed him by hugging him too tightly and kissing his head.

He meowed.

“I _know_ , Adrian,” I put him down on a windowsill, “That guy deserves some hate mail…” I laughed to myself. “I’ll be back.” I grabbed my keys and put my headphones around my neck on my way out the door.

In the hallway of our building, a rusty-haired kid almost ran into me. “Sorry, man,” I said.

“No problem,” he mumbled. “Do you know where Unit 8 is?” he asked.

“That’s _my_ unit,” I said skeptically. He’d piqued my interest, though. I turned around and looked at him appraisingly. He was almost my height and nearly as broad, but his shaggy haircut and sullen expression belied his age—he wasn’t a day over 16.

“Oh,” his eyes widened fractionally. “Are you Alistair?” he asked me.

“Yeah,” I folded my hands across my chest.

“I…” he cut himself off.

In the moment before he started talking again, I noticed the freckles that dotted the bridge of his nose and the way he searched the corners of the room for words. A pit formed in my stomach.

“I think you’re my _dad_ ,” he said.

My mouth hung open. I can’t _imagine_ what my face must have looked like. It felt like a mask—made of some foreign material that weighed too much.

“Maker,” I managed.

“I _know_ ,” he mumbled. His weight shifted away from me and he pushed a palm through this too-long hair. It was _so_ like something I did.

“Do you want to come in?” I asked, gesturing back toward my door.

He nodded even though terror seemed to be lurking behind his eyes.

I opened the door and ushered him in. I realized the kitchen was sort of messy—during the last few months I’d not only slept late; I’d given up on regular daily cleaning habits. Anders kept everything _sanitary_ —there was no mold growing on anything—but he was sick of tidying up after me.

“Sorry about the mess,” I felt my voice crack. Being around this teenager was having a profound effect on me. I felt judged and insecure. I tried to calm my pulse—it was beating wildly in my ears.

“It’s not really messy…” he mused. He looked around the apartment like he’d never seen anything like it before. “This place is kind of impressive…”

“Thanks,” I blushed. I wished transiently that I lived in a less ostentatious place—it made me feel like a deadbeat. My mind hitched: I completely believed this kid—there was no doubt in my mind that I was his father—which begged the question: who was his _mother_?

“Can I get you anything to drink?” I asked. I was _really bad_ at being around kids—I almost offered him a beer.

He shook his head and sat down at my island counter. “I’m Kieran, by the way…”

“Oh…” I realized it might seem inconsiderate that I hadn’t asked. I was so overwhelmed it hadn’t occurred to me yet. “That’s a cool name…”

He rolled his eyes.

I wanted to die of embarrassment. “So,” I cleared my throat, “how old are you?”

“16,” he answered.

I silently congratulated myself for being right as I did the math in my head. If he was 16, that would mean I _impregnated_ someone when I was 19 or 20. Who the _hell_ was I having sex with in my Sophomore or Junior year of college?

“My mom is Morrigan,” he said suddenly.

My mouth went dry. I _remembered_ her—she was an imperious person. She TA-ed my advanced creative literature class Sophomore year. I had the biggest crush on her. One night, she invited me to an English department mixer. We spent the night debating themes and metaphors and ended up fumbling into each other in a coat closet. She graduated a month later and I never gave it another thought.

“Is she all right?” I asked.

He nodded. “Yeah, she’s fine…”

“What does she _do_?” I asked.

“She reviews books and things,” he answered nonchalantly. He was holding a backpack awkwardly on one shoulder.

“Do you want me to take that for you?” I asked.

He let it drop next to him and gave me a skeptical look.

“That’s how I _found_ you,” he added. “She _hates_ your novel.”

My eyes widened, “What do you mean?”

He shrugged, “well… I always _knew_ about you… but when you published that novel a few weeks ago, and she had to review it, I had a way to track you down,” he explained.

My head felt like it was full of cotton. Morrigan had _reviewed_ my novel? She _hated_ my book? We had a _son_?

“So…” Kieran’s brow furrowed. “Don’t you want to know _anything_ about me?” he asked incredulously.

I suddenly realized I was being insensitive, “Maker, _yes_ … I want to know everything.” I leaned across the island so I could look at him close up. He looked a little like Morrigan, but he looked _a lot_ like me.

“Okay… so ask me,”  he rested his elbows on the countertop.

“What grade are you in?” I asked first. It was a stupid question, but I was just warming up.

“I’m a Junior,” he answered. “I should be a sophomore, but I skipped 2nd grade… so I’m ahead.”

I thought that was rather impressive. “That’s just like me… I graduated high school when I was still seventeen.”

He squinted at me.

I cleared my throat, “Where are you applying to college?”

He rolled his eyes, “is this an admission interview?”

“I guess not…” I stood to pour myself a glass of water. My throat was dry and threatening to close.

“Were you _in love_ with my mom?” he asked suddenly.

My back was still turned to him. I wondered if it was _possible_ to turn around. I felt frozen. “No,” I answered quietly.

I heard him shift behind me and forced myself to pivot.

“I really _liked_ her, though,” I added. “She was the TA of one of my classes… she’s a hell of a writer.”

He nodded and managed a perfunctory smile. “Were you at least _dating_ or something?” he asked.

I shook my head, “Sorry…”

He shrugged. “I guess it doesn’t really matter…”

I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. _None_ of this mattered. What _did_ matter was that my progeny was inexplicably sitting in my kitchen on a Tuesday afternoon in the middle of autumn.

“Hey, why aren’t you in school?” I asked.

He rolled his eyes, “I wanted to come see you… but I didn’t want my mom to know.”

He was _very good_ at eye-rolling. He gave Cullen a run for his money. I shivered at the thought—Cullen would have _loved_ this kid.

“Did she tell you anything about me?” I asked.

“Just that you’re a mediocre writer,” he smirked.

I winced. “Well… it’s my _first_ novel,” I mumbled.

He laughed—the first genuine smile I’d seen on him. “I actually thought it was pretty good…” he equivocated.

I smiled. “You read my book?”

“Yeah…” he shrugged again. He was good at that, too.

“Are you gay?” he asked me.

“No,” I answered. “Are _you_?” I smirked. I was so sick of people asking me to define my sexuality, I often did this. I regretted my flippant tone with _him_ , though.

“I don’t _think_ so,” he answered thoughtfully.

“Well… it’s _okay_ …” I stammered, “If you _are_ … that would be great, actually…” In some corner of my mind, I _hoped_ he was gay—then he wouldn’t be in this situation in 20 years… discovering he had a son.

We sat there in silence for a bit _too_ long. We symmetrically leaned into the countertop and sighed, not looking at each other.

“I guess that’s it, then,” he said finally. He started to stand.

“Wait,” I rounded the island to get to him, “Do you want to get together again sometime… maybe in a _planned_ way?”

At his full height, he looked me straight in the eye. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Let me give you my cell number,” I grabbed a pen and scribbled onto the back of an old receipt. “Here you go.”

He smiled and left. When I was again alone in the apartment, I collapsed into a heap on the couch. _I had a son_. He was thoughtful and tall and nice-seeming. And he seemed _a lot_ like me. I found the corners of my mouth turning up of their own volition. _I had a son_.

           


	19. Parenting - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair spends the rest of the day internet stalking Kieran while he prepares to tell Anders.
> 
> \---------------
> 
> (Reposted from 'The Review' as part of the chapter migration project I'm working on.)

* * *

 

I spent the rest of the day scouring the internet for information about Morrigan. The most difficult part was that I didn’t know her last name—I wasn’t sure if I ever had, actually. It wasn’t written on the _scathing_ review I’d read this morning. Only a non-de-plume, “Morr,” which made a lot more sense now. Through a variety of dubious channels, I found out that Kieran’s last name was _Theirin_. My chest felt tight reading it. I found several articles about his violin prowess—he was apparently an all-state level musician. He was also the captain of the soccer team at his high school and an honors student. I brimmed with something like pride.

I was so engrossed in my googling that I didn’t notice when Anders came home.

“Sweetheart,” he scolded, “Are you _still_ reading reviews?”

“What?” I closed the screens as quickly as if I’d been looking at porn. “ _No_ … I stopped reading those.”

“Oh,” Anders looked surprised, “that’s good. What have you been doing all day?” He dropped his briefcase on his desk and started disentangling himself from his autumn coat and scarf.

How could I _begin_ to answer that? I took a deep breath and tried to fill the time with fake coughing, but eventually, I had to say something. “You know… I _met_ someone today…” I began.

“Oh?” he was buzzing around the kitchen disinterestedly.

“I think you need to sit down for this one,” I said.

He looked up and furrowed his brow. “Okay…”

He crossed to sit next to me on the couch. We turned to face each other.

“A boy came to the house today… he caught me when I was about to go for a run.” I explained.

Anders let his fingers wander across the back of the couch to the cap of my shoulder.

“...his name is Kieran,” I continued.

“Okay…”

“And… and he’s my _son_ ,” I blurted.

Anders’ fingers retracted reflexively. “ _What_?”

“He’s my _son_ ,” I repeated.

“I don’t understand,” said Anders. His face was turning red.

“I had a son… in college…” I explained. “Only… I never knew about him.”

He nodded, but his eyes were filled with disbelief.

“...and he found me today.” I grabbed his hands on the couch between us and squeezed. “I thought about _waiting_ to tell you this… but I didn’t know how. I need you to tell me what to do.”

He raised his eyebrows, “You need me to do _what_?” he asked. “I have no idea what to do with a kid. How _old_ is he anyway?”

“Sixteen,” I answered.

He looked shocked, “ _What_?” He pulled his hands away from me and ran them through his hair. “You have a _sixteen_ -year-old son?” Uncharacteristically, he wasn’t handling this well. I realized that the way he’d handled this whole mess with Cullen made me think he was _impervious_ to normal human emotion.

“I guess so?” I mumbled. I couldn’t believe it any more than he could.

He stood suddenly and began to pace. “Who is his mother?”

“Her name is Morrigan…” I tried to anticipate his subsequent questions, “She was a TA for one of my classes in college… we weren’t dating. It was just a one-time-thing.”

“Okay…” he was making tracks in the plush carpet.

“...and this has _nothing_ to do with her…” I added, “She actually doesn’t even know Kieran has contacted me.”

“She doesn’t?” He stopped pacing and looked at me. “Why the hell not?”

I didn’t like his tone. “I don’t know,” I said defensively. “Did you tell _your_ mother every little thing you did when you were sixteen?”

He huffed. “Alistair, I’m going out.” He crossed the room and grabbed his coat.

“What?” I asked, standing.

“I need some time alone,” he opened the door. “ _Don’t_ follow me.”

Just like that, he was gone.

 

* * *

 

The apartment was eerily silent when he left. Like _no one_ lived there—myself included. I wandered into our bedroom and threw my clothes into a heap in the corner before sliding between our sheets. I rolled onto my stomach on his side of the bed and breathed into his pillow. It smelled absolutely divine. I wondered how he managed it.

After four deep breaths, I picked my head up and grabbed for my phone on the nightstand. I clicked his face in my favorites and pulled the phone to my ear.

“Hi?” he asked irritatedly.

“Are you coming home?”

“Of course I’m coming home… I just need a _minute,_ Al,” he complained.

“Okay…” I let the silence hang for a minute, then added, “Do you still love me?”

He laughed bitterly, “I _still_ love you…”

I smiled, although he couldn’t see me.

“I’m having a drink with a few friends… I’ll be home in two or three hours…” he acquiesced.

“Okay… I miss you,” I added.

“I miss you too…” he hung up.

 

* * *

 

Sometime between that phone call and midnight, I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I remember was his warm body curling around mine in bed.

“Hey,” he whispered, tucking himself in behind me.

“Hi,” I mumbled. In the space between sleeping and waking, I imagined a scenario where he asked me to have sex with him. For the next few minutes, I operated under that erroneous belief. I turned to face him and trailed my fingertips down his abdomen until I found his penis. The fact that it _wasn’t_ hard should have been a hint, but I was too far-gone at that point to understand what was happening.

“Alistair…” The way he said my name was sort of a _complaint_ , but I kissed his neck anyway.

“Alistair,” he repeated, “Please wake up and stop this...”

“What?” my eyelids snapped open. I was suddenly wide awake. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know… but it’s not _whatever_ you think it is,” he laughed.

I smiled, despite myself, and pulled my hand back from between his legs. “I love you?”

“I love you,” he assured me. His lips were close enough to mine that they grazed me with each word. “I can’t _believe_ you have a son.”

“Me neither,” I admitted.

“What do you _feel_ like?” he asked.

“Like I’m going to die…” I said dramatically. “...and like I’m finally _alive_.”

We both smiled.

“I want to meet him,” said Anders.

“Really?” my chest swelled and I grabbed onto both sides of his face.

“Of course, Love,” he said.

 

* * *

 

So here we were—two weeks later—having dinner with this surprise progeny. The conversation that led to this encounter was completely done by text and quite terse.

 

            **Kieran:** hey.

            **Alistair:** I’m glad we met... Do you want to get together sometime soon?

            **Kieran:** ok.

            **Alistair:** How about dinner this weekend? Friday?

            **Kieran:** maybe

            **Alistair:** okay… well, when will you know?

            **Kieran:** on friday

            **Alistair:** okay…

 

Friday morning arrived unceremoniously. I checked my phone every two minutes beginning at 6am. On the subway to the paper, I lost service for a few minutes. Those were the longest minutes _of my life_ to date—I stared at my phone in utter disbelief and horror. Of course, that horror was matched by the misery I felt when I found no missed calls or messages upon returning to the cell service area.

All morning, I was in meetings. I told everyone I was “expecting an important call,” but none came, much to my chagrin.

Finally, at 4pm, I got a text:

 

            **Kieran:** I’ll be at your place at 7

 

My heart stopped. I ran out of a shareholders meeting to call Anders. He didn’t answer immediately. I called him back two more times before he answered.

“Hi, Sweetheart, are you okay?” he asked.

“No,” I panted. “This is an emergency.”

“Okay… are you _hurt_?” he asked. He was in court, I could tell by the background noise.

“No… but Kieran is coming over at seven,” I answered.

“Okay, Love,” he barely stifled a laugh, “I’ll be home as early as I can to help you. Love you.”

“Love you— _so_ much,” I mumbled desperately and hung up.

I dashed home from work and scrubbed the house clean from top to bottom. Adrian looked at me like I was some _different_ human who had body-snatched the Alistair he knew. Eventually, he hid under my bed and didn’t come out until I put the vacuum cleaner away.

At 6:45, Anders came in and dropped his things in the entryway.

“This place looks amazing,” he marveled.

“Thanks,” I said. “Do you think I did enough?”

“Maker, yes…” he laughed, “If Andraste herself were coming over, it would be _enough_.”

I grinned. “He should be here really soon.”

Anders nodded. “I’m going to change into something less lawyer-y.”

“Okay,” I smiled and blushed. My phone was sitting on the island counter on its highest volume setting.

At 7:01 I sat at the island and stared at it.

At 7:10, I started to panic.

“What if something happened to him?” I asked.

Anders laughed from his stool on the other side of the island, “He’s _fine_ —he’s a teenager… do you remember what that was like? 15 minutes late is still kind of like _early_.”

I smiled, but I had a dark feeling in the pit of my stomach.

At 7:15, I thought I was going to implode. As the clock ticked to 7:16, the intercom buzzed.

“Hey, it’s Kieran, can I come up?”

“Yup,” I buzzed the button and waited.

“Hi,” I said, opening the door.

Kieran stepped inside and took his coat off. He looked a little more put together than he had the other day. His hair was less dishevelled.

“Kieran, this is Anders,” I wrapped an arm around his back and pulled him forward toward Kieran.

“Nice to meet you,” said Anders, extending his hand.

“You too,” Kieran smiled, but he was hesitant to shake Anders’ hand. I couldn’t discern why.

“So… What do you want to do for dinner?” I asked. “I have tons of food I could cook… I also have every takeout menu available _or_ we can go to any restaurant in the city,” I offered.

Kieran smiled vaguely. “I'm not that hungry… I would rather just… Talk?”

“Sure,” I said, gesturing toward the living room. I sat on the couch with Anders, while Kieran selected one of the adjacent  arm chairs.

“So, Kieran,” began Anders, “Alistair tells me you're quite the violinist.”

Kieran brushed a hand through his hair, “Thanks. He hasn't _heard_ me, but I _am_ pretty good.”

That wasn't strictly true. I'd found a variety of youtubes of him playing, but I wasn't ready to admit to stalking yet.

“Well, we'd love to come see you play sometime,” said Anders. He dropped his hand on my knee. I watched Kieran's eyes follow it.

I cleared my throat and crossed my legs away from Anders—disentangling my thigh in the process.

Anders scowled at me transiently, “Do you live nearby?” He asked.

“In the suburbs,” answered Kieran. “Just a half hour on the green line and I'm here—it's a straight shot.”

An awkward silence fell as I tried to think of more questions. I wanted to ask him everything, but I didn’t know where the line was between interested and creepy.

“So… Are you guys _married_?” Kieran asked suddenly. His eyes darted appraisingly over our left hands.

“No… We are planning a wedding, though,” I said. I smiled at Anders.

Kieran’s face curled into an expression I couldn’t understand—he looked _stressed_.

Anders seemed to notice it too. He stood suddenly, “On second thought I'm pretty hungry. Let's just order something—by the time it gets here, you might be hungry too,” he smiled at Kieran and walked away from us into the kitchen.

“ _He's_ the guy from the book…?” asked Kieran. “Right?”

My eyes went wide. “Holy Andraste, _no_ …” I almost smiled, “is _that_ why you’ve been looking at him like that?”

Kieran blushed.

“No,” I smiled, “Anders is the guy who _saved_ me from the guy in the book.”

“Oh,” Kieran bit his lip thoughtfully, “so he _was_ a real person?”

“His name was Cullen,” I said quietly.

“Did he really die of kidney failure?” asked Kieran.

“No,” I answered. I couldn't bring myself to explain it. Luckily, Anders interrupted our conversation. “Japanese or Thai?” he asked.

 

* * *

 

The rest of the night passed without much trouble. We managed to find a tenuous rhythm. Kieran was interested in becoming a psychologist, it turned out. He wanted to use music in therapeutic situations. I thought that was fascinating. Anders smiled and laughed and managed to seem completely at ease with this young stranger in our kitchen.

“Oh,” Kieran reached for his phone suddenly. “It’s my mom…” he looked down at the screen with trepidation.

“Do you need to get that?” I asked.

He nodded, “Hey,” he said into the phone.

Anders and I stopped breathing at once.

“Yeah, I’ll be home soon—I’m just out with some... _friends_ …” he said.

He looked over my shoulder at the clock. It was after ten. He squinted, I noticed. I wondered if he was supposed to be wearing glasses. I started wearing mine at his age.

“Love you too,” he muttered.

When he hung up, he started gathering his things. It seemed abrupt.

“You have to leave already?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he smirked. He was a very smirky, snarky, funny child, I noticed. He seemed more like an adult. I was thankful for that; I had no experience with children—but adults I was usually pretty good with.

“Well, it was very nice to meet you,” said Anders.

“You too,” said Kieran. He smiled at Anders, then looked at me. “See you, Alistair…”

I wasn’t sure if I should shake his hand or hug him or gently punch his shoulder. I didn’t know how to _be_. Instead, I didn’t do anything.

“Bye,” I mumbled.

 

* * *

 

Anders and I brushed our teeth and washed our faces almost silently. I barely even breathed until his arms were around me in bed.

“Can you believe this?” I whispered into the skin of his chest.

“No,” he laughed, “not even a little.”

“What did you think of him?” I propped myself up and looked down at Anders.

“He seems like a good kid,” said Anders.

“What does _that_ mean?” I asked skeptically. He might as well have been talking about a new _couch_ for all the emotion he used.

He smirked up at me, “I don’t know… the whole thing is kind of weird for me… he seemed _nice_ —like, not a sociopath.”

I laughed and kissed him—a little more desperately than I meant to. I was feeling vulnerable.

“Do you think he has a girlfriend?” I asked.

“Maybe?” Anders raised an eyebrow. “What made you ask that?”

“I don’t know… I just bet he does…” I mused.

“Well, he certainly gets his good looks from you…” Anders gripped my hips suggestively, “So if he does have a girlfriend—or a boyfriend, or a non-binary-friend—I bet they’re gorgeous.”

I laughed.


	20. Parenting - Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair remembers getting to know Anders while he tries to bond with Kieran--with limited success. Anders saves the day, as usual.
> 
> \----------
> 
> (migration project)

* * *

 

I have always contended that how a person takes his coffee says a lot about his character. For example, the first time I ever had a coffee date with Anders, I learned he was the kind of person I wanted to marry someday—although I wouldn't have admitted it then.

 

* * *

 

“Oh, you're already here?” he smirked and sat across from me at the small table.

This wasn't my _usual_ Starbucks. I usually went to one nearer to my office, but he'd asked me to meet him here. Terrified of being late—it's a character flaw: pervasive horror about punctuality—I arrived an hour early and tried to work on my novel. I couldn't actually seem to write anything, though. I was too nervous. _This_ was the morning after that date in the fancy restaurant that convinced me there _was, in fact,_ life after Cullen. I wanted to make a good impression.

“I've just been working on my book,” I explained.

“Oh?” He leaned in and pretended to look over the top of my laptop. “That asshole up to no good again?”

He meant the Cullen-character, of course. If anyone _else_ had said that, I would have been defensive, but Anders was already breaking all my usual rules. He seemed exempt.

“More or less,” I answered. As I silently congratulated myself for being charming (and less nervous than last night), Anders stood.

“So, what are you drinking?” he asked.

I looked down at my cup. “Grande triple coconut milk latte.”

“Wow, you were _that_ tired after our little date?” he joked.

“I take exception to the word _little_ in that context,” I teased, “... _you_ aren't the one who paid that bill.”

He blushed and smiled. “I'll be right back.”

I watched him get in line. He was _stunningly_ attractive now that I looked at him in normal clothes. It's strange: most people like to see him dressed up—he wears a tux like none other—but _I_ like to see him in jeans and a thin white v-neck. I like him in joggers, his hair thrown up in a bun. I _really_ like him undressed the most of all.

But anyway, on this particular day, he was wearing a royal blue cashmere sweater with a deep v that exposed a bit of his clavicles. The color contrasted his eyes in this way I'll never forget—like they were _glowing_.

He winked when he caught me staring. I blinked an _inappropriate_ number of times, as if the sun was in my eyes or something. It was ridiculous, though, because it was pouring outside.

He laughed and ran a hand through his hair. His bangs flopped down across his left eye instantly. I shivered.

I was in _deep_. If I'm honest with myself, I never had a chance. Anders basically swept me off my feet.

When he returned to the table, he dropped a steaming cup between us. He popped the cap off to reveal inky black liquid.

“What is that?” I asked.

“Americano,” he answered nonchalantly.

“And you drink it black?” I asked.

He nodded.

“That's a very _serious_ drink, Anders,” I said through a smile, “like… something a cutthroat attorney would drink…”

He laughed, which I took as encouragement.

“ _You know_ ,” I continued, “the kind of lawyer who _destroys_ people—full of rage and vengeance.”

He laughed, “I prefer to call it _justice_.” He tucked his foot under him and rocked toward me across the table.

“You're _something else_ …” I raised an eyebrow appraisingly, but I couldn't sustain it. The way he was smirking at me tied my stomach in knots. I already knew that he was going to be important to me. _Now_ I knew he thought of himself as some sort of hero/vigilante type—all from this first cup of coffee.

 

* * *

 

The problem was—Kieran didn't drink coffee. So all the inferences I would normally have drawn were missing. I resorted to taking him to every restaurant in the city and grilling him for hours. A few months into our budding parent-child relationship, I got him to open up.

 

“Anders is a lot calmer than you are, huh?” asked Kieran. He was smirking again—it seemed permanent.

“Usually, yes,” I answered.

We were having dinner in a cool farm-to-table restaurant. It would have been cooler if he was old enough to drink, but they _did_ have a variety of interesting homemade sodas. Every time we saw each other, it struck me how little I remembered from my own adolescence. I couldn’t remember what it _felt_ like to be that young. My memories _began_ toward the end of college.

“He’s pretty great,” I added.

“Yeah, he seems like he’s really into you,” said Kieran.

I blushed, “you think so?”

“Yeah…” he rolled his eyes, “You’re _marrying_ him, right?”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t necessarily _mean_ anything…” I mumbled.

He smiled at me. It was amazing how I'd come to _live_ for that smile. Whenever I could get him to do it, I congratulated myself.

“So… I have a question…” I cleared my throat. “Why did you contact me? I mean… _now_ … after 16 years?”

Kieran pursed his lips and pushed a hand through his hair. “Well…” He swallowed some soda and looked down at his napkin. “My step dad is an asshole.”

My eyes widened. “You have a stepdad?”

Kieran rolled his eyes, “you're not allowed to be territorial—we just met.”

He had a point. We'd been in contact for exactly one month. To be fair, though, we'd seen each other a lot in that small amount of time.

“Anyway…” Kieran shifted in his chair uncomfortably. “He acts like I'm in the way… And the other day, I had a _friend_ over… And he embarrassed the shit of of me.”

My first reaction was to get angry. I felt my face flushing. Upon consideration, though, I remembered how _easy_ it is to embarrass a teenager.

“What happened?” I asked. I hadn't forgotten the way he'd said _‘friend_.’ I was going to ask about that too.

“Well… Lily and I were in my room…” He mumbled. “Not doing _anything_ really—just listening to music and talking…”

“Okay…”

Kieran blinked at me. He was apparently surprised that I hadn't flown off the handle yet. I knew parents were supposed to care about their kids having potential love interests in their rooms, but _I_ didn't. And it _wasn't_ just because I hadn't been a father until last month—it was because I was once a kid who had sex in a public park because I wasn’t allowed to do it at home. I could have ended up in all kinds of much more _serious_ trouble if I'd been caught.

“So he comes upstairs and freaks out. Lily nearly cried,” concluded Kieran. “And my mom just went along with it—it's so unlike her…”

I felt my eyebrows narrow. “What did Lily say about the whole thing?” I asked.

“She's not really talking to me… She hasn't texted me back in a few days…” said Kieran miserably.

A stupid idea hatched in the back of my mind. I was so desperate for him to like me, I would have done _anything_.

“Why not invite her to hang out at our place?” I asked.

He quirked an eyebrow at me.

“We'll set up the guest room however you want and then you can have her over…” I offered. “No outdated, puritanical rules.”

His mouth dropped open a little.

“Well…” I amended, “one rule: be smart and _safe_.”

 

* * *

 

That Friday, he and I spent the afternoon moving things out of the guest room. When Anders came home, he yelled over the sound of the vacuum cleaner, but we couldn’t really hear him. I turned the thing off.

“Hi Sweetie,” I said, smiling stupidly.

He looked a little bewildered. We had managed to make a variety of messes in the reorganization process.

“What are you two doing?” he asked me.

I walked up close to him and kissed his cheek. “We’re making Kieran a room here.”

His eyebrows lifted higher than I’d see them. “ _Why_?”

“Because he needs to have a place to _be_ when he’s here,” I answered.

I saw Kieran smile in my periphery before ducking back into the guest room.

“Okay… well, where are we going to put all this stuff?” Anders asked. He looked around the living room at piles of _his_ things—suits, papers, books.

“I thought we’d set up some shelving in our bedroom and make more space in our closet,” I answered.

He sighed.

“Come here,” I wrapped my arms around him and rested my chin on his shoulder. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you to warn you—I know you hate change.”

“I don’t really _hate_ change—it’s just _unsettling_ ,” he mumbled. I could tell he was smiling, though. I had a way of winning him over.

“Kieran just needs a place to hang out,” I explained. “You know… have friends over, whatever.”

Anders nodded absently and pulled away from me. He walked straight to the wine fridge and pulled out a bottle of Meritage. “I’m going to need a drink…”

I laughed at him.

Kieran poked his head around the corner as we were toasting across the island counter.

“Oh good,” sighed Kieran, “You’re home.”

Anders smiled hesitantly, “Why?”

“Lily just texted that she’s on her way over…” His eyes were hidden by his thick bangs, but I could see hints of worry around his mouth. “I wanted to make sure she got to meet _both_ of you.”

“That’s nice, Kieran,” said Anders. I watched his face turn a little pink. It was rare to see him blushing—I loved what it did to the apples of his cheeks.

“I’m going to meet her downstairs so she doesn’t pick the wrong elevator bay…” he paused in the hallway to appraise his hair in the mirror.

I smiled at Anders. No matter how little I remembered my childhood, I _certainly_ remembered the nervous feeling of meeting a date—as recently as when Anders came home from work that very day.

Kieran closed the door behind him and we waited.

“So…” Anders looked at me appraisingly, “at the risk of sounding overbearing, did you happen to talk to Morrigan about this?” he asked.

I was taken aback—I hadn’t spoken to Morrigan at all—not since the night we accidentally _created_ Kieran.

“No,” I answered.

“That’s what I was afraid of…” sighed Anders.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well… this seems like a situation that parents normally talk about ahead of time…” He took another sip from his wine glass. “You know… the _rules_ for such a meeting…”

I huffed. “I'm against that type of rule.”

His mouth dropped open a little. “ _Please_ tell me you didn’t say that to Kieran.”

I shrugged.

“Are you _insane_?” he almost spit some wine. “You _cannot_ tell a sixteen year old that it’s fine for him to have sex at your house.”

I hadn’t _exactly_ said that… but hearing him say it like that made it sound _terrible_.

“...I mean, not only is it _creepy_ , but it’s reckless!” he continued.

I bit my bottom lip. “It’s kind of late to put up boundaries now…”

“Andraste’s ass, Al,” said Anders.

At that exact second, the lock clicked and in walked a very pretty girl with bright red hair in a pair of skinny jeans and a black beanie. Her little legs were probably no wider than my forearm. She was _tiny_ —she looked about 14. For some reason, the difference between 14 and 16 was insurmountable to me.

“Hi,” said Anders enthusiastically. He extended his arm, “I’m Anders; this is Kieran’s dad: Alistair,” he gestured to me.

When I took this little girl’s hand, I instantly regretted every _‘parenting’_ decision I had made. For all I knew, this child’s father could be waiting for _her_ to call—wondering when she’d be home. Maybe he was also in a relatively new, but incredibly romantic, domestic partnership, discovering he had a teennager in his 30s. Or _maybe_ he was some kind of MMA fighter who would come over here and _kick my ass_ the second he found out what _my son_ was planning to do to her. I swallowed hard and tried not to sweat.

“I’m Lillian—you can call me Lily,” she said happily. Even her voice sounded like a child—high and lilting.

“Would you like some water or a soda or something?” asked Anders. He was handling this infinitely better than I was.

I was turning into some kind of spastic nightmare—Kieran gave me a look that told me it was _obvious_.

“Sure, thanks,” said Lily. She sat at one of the stools of our island and Kieran sat next to her. He dwarfed her in every imaginable way.

“So, Lily,” began Anders from our side of the island. “Are you in the same class with Kieran?”

“No,” she smiled happily and looked up at Kieran. “I’m a sophomore. We’re in orchestra together.”

“Oh really?” asked Anders. He sipped easily from the edge of his wine glass, “What do you play?”

“Cello,” interrupted Kieran. “She’s the first chair,” he beamed at her.

I tried to imagine this miniature person playing the cello—it was probably as big as she was. It’s ridiculous, but when I think back on that day, I see her as some sort of _elf_ —legs hanging inches from the floor, slightly pointed ears.

“Well, what are you two planning to do tonight?” I asked suddenly.

Kieran’s eyes widened fractionally.

“Maybe just watch Netflix…” said Lily.

 _Oh no_ —not Netflix! I knew that code.

“Maybe we could go _see_ a movie,” I suddenly suggested. “Wouldn’t that be fun?” I put a hand on Anders’ shoulder, which was supposed to look like an emphatic gesture, but actually just acted as a crutch.

“Yeah, I guess,” he mumbled.

“ _You guys_ can go, I think we’ll just stay here…” said Kieran. He was looking at Lily in a way that I found horrifying. This adorable honors student and violinist had turned into a _wolf_ —fangs and all—in the course of one conversation.

“You know, Al, I think I’m kind of _tired_ ,” said Anders quietly. He took my hand off his shoulder and kissed the back of the knuckles. “Maybe we could all just stay here—watch something on the big screen.” He gestured to our projector in the back corner of the living room.

Lily smiled, “that sounds fun.”

Kieran stood, “well, let me show you the rest of the place before we do anything else.” Lily stood and followed him into the room we’d cleaned for him.

 

Anders leaned toward me when we were alone. “Okay, you seem to be losing your shit, so can I _help_ you in some way?”

“Anders, you were _so_ right,” I whispered desperately, “he’s a _predator_.”

Anders laughed so hard he almost inhaled his wine. “Alistair—were you _ever_ a sixteen-year-old boy?”

“I don’t know—I am having a hard time believing we’re the same _species_ right now,” I grumbled.

“You have nothing to worry about,” he mussed my hair on his way to refill his wine glass. “That little girl isn’t even _slightly_ interested in having sex with him. She’d rather hang out with his _‘gay dads’_.” He said it that way because it was a constant assumption we’d been dealing with lately. I was sort of starting to _own_ it, bi-erasure notwithstanding.

He was right, of course. Anders always is. After her brief tour of the apartment and some pictures from their most recent concert, we all settled into our big sectional couch and watched a dumb comedy until it was time for her mom to pick her up. We all walked her downstairs to say goodbye.

“Hey Mom,” she said at the car window. She waved us over. “These are Kieran’s dads: Anders and Alistair.”

It wasn’t strictly _true_ and I hoped Anders was okay with that title, but I liked the way it sounded.

“Hi, there,” we said. We shook her hand and exchanged numbers for ‘next time.’

“I can give Kieran a ride back to his mom’s house,” she offered. We all agreed, hugged, and he was gone.

 

* * *

 

Upstairs, I let out the longest sigh of my life and rolled into bed with Anders.

“I love you, you know,” I whispered into his ear.

“I've heard that,” he joked.

“Hey, do you want to get coffee tomorrow?” I asked suddenly.

“We can just make coffee,” he squinted at me.

“Yes, I know,” I rolled onto Anders and hovered an inch above his face, “...but I was just thinking about that other Anders I know… that _crusader_ … that vigilante obsessed with justice.”

Anders laughed.

“He was on full display tonight—taking care of the weak and disenfranchised,” I pointed to my own face and laughed, “ _me_ …”

Anders craned his neck to peck my cheek.

“...I’d kind of like to have coffee with _him_ …” I smirked. 

“Only if you'll pretend not to know me…” Anders smiled broadly, “I'd love to pick you up in a coffee shop…”

I laughed.

“Oh… busy in here today isn't it?” He pantomimed an innocent expression.

“I'll order you a black Americano…” I offered.

“I'm going to hold you to that.”

We kissed until we were already mostly asleep. Sleeping next to Anders is still the best thing in my life, but I don't think I have ever appreciated it more than I did that night.

 

 


	21. Vacation - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair and Anders go on vacation. Alistair explains the whole experience in his usual meandering way--parts of the past mixed with the present.
> 
> (chapter migration project)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the purposes of this story, imagine that Rivain is like Dubai in terms of its social structure.

* * *

 

In most relationships, there's some kind of power dynamic. It can be based on education or attractiveness, but often, it comes down to money. The person who makes more tends to feel like they are owed something. The person who makes less feels indebted. I wanted to avoid that with Anders at all costs—pun intended.

Anders made a good living as an attorney. He had enough money to buy nice clothes, have fun hobbies, and save for retirement. But compared with my trust fund… it was a drop in the bucket. I _worked_ , but mostly for the intellectual stimulation and because I'd inherited this huge media outlet. I didn't _need_ to.

When I first received this boon, it felt strange. But it doesn't take very long to acclimate to the finer things. By the time I started my affair with Cullen when I was 32, I hadn't flown in coach for a decade and I refused to stay anywhere with less than 5 stars. I was a _brat_. I didn't want Anders to think I _still_ was. The tough part was, he _liked_ my money—a lot.

“Can we go to Rivain this summer?” he asked me one morning. He was sitting at the island counter, squinting at his computer. He was supposed to use reading glasses now, but he refused.

“Uh… I suppose?” I smiled and wrapped my arms around his neck to look at the screen with him. “When would you want to go?”

“Maybe after this trial is over…” he mused, not looking at me. He'd been working on a big case for half a year.

“Okay…” I mumbled. The hotel he was looking at was outrageously beautiful—and had a price tag to match.

“Really?” he turned his head—our noses brushed. “You'll take me?!” he looked surprised.

“Yeah… of course…” I stood up and rubbed my eyes. “You said you wanted to go, right?”

“Maker, Al!” He stood up and looped his arms around my waist. “I promise I'm going to give you so many blowjobs for this.” He kissed me.

 _That_ was when my stomach lurched a little.

“You know I'd take you _anywhere_ you wanted to go…” I cautioned. “...no sex acts required.”

He smiled, “Yeah, I know… but I'd like to feel like I'm contributing at least a little…” he smirked.

I grimaced. That was what I was _afraid_ of. As if it wasn't bad enough that we lived together in an apartment where I paid all the rent. As if it wasn't bad enough that I bought every expensive meal and lots of ‘just because’ presents. No wonder he wanted to suck my dick all the time—he must have felt _guilty_.

“Sweetie…” I cleared my throat, “you know you don't _have to_ do anything like that, right?”

“What do you mean?” He asked nonchalantly. His hands were wandering toward my crotch.

I sidestepped him and leaned against the counter. “I don't want you to have sex with me as some sort of tit-for-tat situation.”

He held my gaze for an uncomfortable amount of time.

“Love…” he side-eyed me, “I fuck you because I _want_ to—not because I want unfettered access to your money. The money is just a side benefit.”

I managed to laugh.

He smiled and looped his hands behind my neck. “Alistair— _man who I love_ —will you please take me on vacation this summer?” He winked before burying his mouth in my neck.  As frequently as I tell stories about winning him over, he was even better at it than I was.

“Anywhere you want to go… I _love_ you,” my voice was muffled by his hair. 

 

* * *

 

Six months later, we still hadn’t taken that vacation—and not because we had a power differential, but because we’d started this business with Kieran. I hadn’t even _considered_ leaving the country since meeting Kieran. But now that things were calming down, Anders was starting to leave hints about that vacation again: an email about ‘the Rivani rainy season’ or a text about how great I look in a bathing suit… he was _not_ subtle. Eventually, he brought it up one night in bed.

“Remember that vacation you promised me?” he asked.

I laughed. “Yes… what about it?”

“Are you holding out for more sexual favors?”

I rolled toward him and nuzzled into the skin above his collar bone. “Maybe…”

As part of the joke—or maybe a serious bargaining chip—he snaked a hand down my abdomen.

“When would you want to go?” I asked.

“ _Soon_ …”

“It just feels…” putting this sentence together proved difficult. “...strange… to leave when we’re just getting to know Kieran.”

“Why don’t we just bring him?” asked Anders. “And that little girlfriend of his… we can assure her parents that we’ll give her a _separate_ bedroom…”

I laughed—that was a _must_ after the evening we had recently.

“You really want to go away with Kieran and Lily?” I asked.

“Sure,” Anders’ look is incredulous. “Why not?”

“I guess there really isn’t a better place to get to know someone than in a foreign country…” I mused.

“Especially not the way _you_ do vacations,” joked Anders. “It’s going to be epic.”

 

* * *

 

After a variety of phone meetings with Lily's parents, she was allowed to go with us. In terms of Kieran, Morrigan had given him carte blanche to do whatever he wanted during the summer vacation before his senior year—she was apparently interested in some fringe type of parenting called ‘The Orlesian Method.’ Essentially, that meant letting your teenager do anything he wanted to test his sense of autonomy. I was in favor of it, actually, but I didn’t like that Morrigan had thought of it first.

On the morning of our departure flight, we rose at 4am.

“Okay, guys,” I called into Kieran's room. Lily and Kieran were sleeping side by side on top of the covers. They were both _fully_ clothed and the door had been open all night: Anders’ rules, not mine.

I leaned into the doorframe and smiled at them.

“I didn't sleep at all,” complained Kieran.

“Don't worry, we can sleep on the plane,” said Lily. She rubbed sleep out of her eyes and smiled up at me.

Anders kissed my cheek a second later. “Coffee?” He offered me a cup.

“Thanks, babe,” I pulled him into the door next to me and kissed him hard.

Kieran groaned, “get a room.”

“We had several before _you_ showed up,” joked Anders.

Everyone laughed.

 

Before I knew it we were sitting in two double occupancy lie-flat pods in the center of a boeing 757 headed toward Dairsmuid. The flight was about 8 hours.

“So what do you want to do first?” asked Anders. He curled his fingers into my hair and kissed me.

“I can't say it in mixed company.” I leaned in toward his ear and bit the shell.

“That goes without saying…” laughed Anders. “Let me rephrase: what would you like to do _second_?”

“Whatever you want.”

Anders reclined his chair and grabbed a book from his carry on. “Do you think we could see these ruins?” He pointed to a picture.

“Yes.” I’d never actually taken a real vacation with him before. We’d been on lots of weekend trips and a few planes, but nothing like this. I wondered if he was the type of traveler to make itineraries or take lots of pictures. I imagined him in a floral pattern shirt with a camera around his neck and almost laughed.

 

I fell asleep for the majority of the flight. When I woke up, Anders’ arm was wrapped around my waist and Kieran was standing over us.

“Alistair,” he said, poking me. “We're only about an hour out.”

I blinked and sat up, disrupting Anders in the process. “Oh. Let me check in with the hotel and make sure our transport is ready to go.” I opened my laptop and connected to wifi. “Have you two had a nice flight?” I asked.

“Perfect,” he answered. “Everyone's treating us like we're _royalty…_ ” he answered. He made a face.

“What?”

“Well… with my last name… people used to always _ask_ … but now I'm really _part_ of this; aren't I?” he stammered.

I laughed. “I guess… people tend to be a little _weird_ about it—just be kind to everyone and you won't have any problems.”

He nodded.

Anders stirred next to me. “Are we almost there?”

Kieran leaned over him, “Yup… I'm going to check on Lily.”

“Love,” Anders gripped my shoulder, “can you schedule us a massage? My neck is killing me.”

“Yes,” I smirked. “I'll send an email to the concierge.”

I love planning vacations. It's literally one of my favorite activities. I couldn't wait to show my family what I'd planned. _My family_.

“Sweetie,” I whispered, “I can't wait to spoil the shit out of you.”

Anders laughed. “I'll never say no to that.”

 

* * *

 

When we finally arrived at the hotel, I was sort of exhausted. All I wanted to do was crawl into bed with Anders for the rest of the week.

“Maker!” shouted Kieran. “Have you _seen_ this room??”

I followed him inside the double doors. The suite had three bedrooms: a master on one end and two smaller rooms on the other side of a living room. Outside the French doors, there was a patio that led to a private pool.

“This is _amazing_ ,” said Lily, “thanks, Alistair,” she beamed.

“What am I, chopped liver?” whispered Anders. He smirked.

“They only like me because I bought them off…” I joke, “if you take Lily to get her hair done, she'll probably write you a sonnet.”

“Should I do that?” he asked.

“What?”

“Take Lily to do some bonding stuff? Something gay-best-friend-ish?” He laughed and hit my shoulder.

“Maybe?” I asked. “Are we planning to have Kieran marry her or is she just ‘the high school girlfriend.’”?

“He’s 16… give him a chance to _live_ a little,” laughed Anders.

I laughed. “Can we _please_ go check out our bedroom?” I raised an eyebrow in what _felt_ like an alluring expression.

“We can go _look_ , but no funny business until we get rid of the kids,” he laughed and pulled me by the arm into our bedroom.

The whole place was absolutely beautiful—decorated expertly in a traditional seaside style. The master bedroom had its own private balcony that jutted out over an inlet of the island. The ocean was visible from every window in the whole place.

“Love?” called Anders. I was surprised to see he wasn’t still standing next to me.

“Yeah?” I looked for him.

“In here!” he called from the bathroom. “This is… _incredible_.”

I laughed, standing next to him in the vast room. It was easily as big as the second bedroom in our downtown apartment. Although our place was _very_ nice—it didn’t have a lot of square footage.

“Al…” he curled into me, and fixed me with a sultry gaze, “I think we need to move here…”

We laughed as I surveyed the place. The entire bathroom was white marble—deep veins of slate grey ran through it in unpredictable patterns. The shower was entryless with at least four showerheads. The tub, which was adjacent, would probably fit Anders and I without letting water spill out the sides—quite a feat.

“If we move into this hotel room, we will _definitely_ not be rich that much longer…” I teased. “Will you still love me when my money runs out?”

He kissed my neck and bit the skin slightly, “probably…”

“Love you,” I said, kissing the side of his head. “Let’s go make sure Kieran and Lily haven’t done anything horrible yet.”

He exhaled sharply. “Okay…” he adjusted himself slightly and spun away from me. I liked knowing that separating was as hard for him as it was for me.

 

“Lily? Kieran?” called Anders.

They appeared from the balcony and came to sit in the living room. I poured myself a drink from the wet bar and sat with them a minute later.

“It’s like 11am, Sweetie…” whispered Anders.

I shrugged. “It doesn’t count—I’m on vacation.”

He laughed.

“So… here’s the situation,” I said to everyone—mostly Kieran. “The whole island _is_ the hotel—so you can go anywhere and do anything you want, really. There are tons of excursions, yoga classes, restaurants, a spa, several pools, golf, tennis… whatever.”

Kieran and Lily gaped at me.

“And you can just charge whatever you do to the room,” added Anders. He held up his keycard. “Just don’t lose this.”

Lily jumped up and hugged me. Kieran was blushing ridiculously in the background.

“Let’s just all make sure we’re back here by 6 or 6:30…” I added, once Lily calmed down. “I made reservations for us at this incredible restaurant tonight—it has an open fire pit where they cook all the food.”

Everyone nodded and dispersed. Lily and Kieran put on bathing suits and headed down to the beach almost instantly. Anders changed into what I would call ‘resort wear.’ He looked ridiculously handsome, but _softer_ than I was used to—white linen pants and an almost translucent button down shirt.

“So… what should _we_ do today?” he asked. He was leaning against the doorframe, one foot hooked across the other.

“I realize that we’ve never been here… and there are _lots_ of things you might want to see…” I stalked up to him, emphasizing my words with each step. “...but there are some things right here in this room that _I_ want to see…” I bit my lip.

“Al, I just got dressed…” he complained.

“So let me help you get _un_ dressed,” I offered.

 

A few hours later, I was staring up at the intricately decorated ceiling. I noticed that the entire thing was sculpted into concentric rings. Who thought that was a good idea? I mean, I didn’t _disagree_ —it was beautiful. But whose original idea was it to mold the plaster like that? Who thought, ‘you know, after people fuck in this hotel, they’re going to be exhausted and need something interesting to look at on the ceiling,’?

“This is the best vacation ever,” panted Anders.

I rolled my head toward him and laughed. “You think so?”

He rolled his eyes.

“I love you,” I said.

“I’ve _heard_ that…”

“Oh yeah?” I rolled onto my side and draped an arm across his chest. “Who told you?”

“ _Everyone_ knows…” He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. “You should really be more _discreet_.”

I laughed as Anders rolled in and scooted against me.

“Seriously… maybe we should be a _little_ discreet…” he added.

I squinted. “Why?”

He opened his eyes wider, “We’re in _Rivain…_ ”

I shrugged.

“I thought you said you’d been here before?” he squinted at me.

“Not since college,” I explained.

“ _Oh_ … when you could pass for straight…” he smirked.

“What do you mean?” I picked up my head rested it on my arm.

“There is a lot more tension here than you’re used to—it’s very _traditional_ ,” he explained.

“Fuck that,” I said.

He rolled his eyes. “I’d rather not see you get into a fistfight over this in front of the kids…”

“I’m not going to fight anyone, but I’m also not going to spend _my_ vacation pretending that I’m not in love with you,” I argued.

“Fair enough,” acquiesced Anders. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you…”

The rest of the day passed lazily. We napped—which was an inadvisable way to adapt to a new time zone—we day-drank, we lounged by the private pool, and we eventually found ourselves in that bathtub, all before six o’clock.

 

At around 6:15, I heard the lock click in the suite’s doors. Kieran and Lily came tumbling in with arm-fulls of bags.

“What did you guys do today?” I asked. I was propped against three couch pillows, reading a book, as if I _hadn’t_ just been doing _unspeakable_ things to Anders all day.

“We might have gone a little overboard,” said Lily. She made a contrite face, but Kieran was smiling behind her.

“No, we didn’t,” he laughed. “We got you guys presents… it’s a little strange because technically _you_ bought them—but we thought you’d like the idea, anyway…”

I smiled and sat up, “show me.”

Anders poked his head out from our bedroom. His hair was still wet. “Did you say ‘presents’?”

I laughed and waved him over. He sat against my chest on the couch so I had to look _around_ him to see Kieran’s show-and-tell. Neither child batted an eye though—they were _really_ good kids…

“So… for Anders… we got you this awesome hat…” said Kieran. Lily modeled it for us while he spoke. “We thought you’d want it since you burn so easily…”

I laughed. Anders _was_ quite pale… he had already yelled at me for ‘having a tan from two seconds of sunshine.’

“...it’s just enough protection for your cheeks, but it won’t obstruct the rest of your body and give you weird tan lines,” explained Lily.

Anders put the hat on experimentally. It looked great on him. It was sort of like a straw fedora. He pulled it down over one eye; I swooned.

“Alistair,” said Kieran, “we got you something too… but we’re not sure about the sizing… so we can take it back if it doesn’t work…”

“What is it?” I smiled.

From one of the cavernous bags, Lily pulled a ridiculous shirt. It was patterned in palm trees. Its background was pale purple. It was actually quite stylish—not at all a dad-shirt—but I would never have picked it myself.

“Where did you find that?” I asked.

“At this cool boutique near the ocean,” answered Lily. “You’d actually both like it.”

“Should I _wear_ this?” I asked.

Anders nodded at me, but I couldn’t tell if he was setting me up to be made fun of later.

“Thanks, you two,” said Anders.

“You’re welcome,” Kieran reached out to take Lily’s hand across the couch, “Thank _you_ for taking us—this is already the coolest vacation I’ve ever been on.”

From a _teenager_ , that was high praise.

“Okay, well, our reservation is in fifteen minutes,” I glanced down at my watch, which was still set to the wrong time, “so get freshened up and we can head down.”


	22. Vacation - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rest of the vacation chapter... not everything is as easy as Alistair expected... Also, Alistair finally tells a story about Cullen that he's never told before... Something that lives in the recesses of his mind. (chapter migration)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I once read a really good novel where the narrator couldn't be implicitly trusted. It made such a profound impression on me that I think about all narrators differently now. Alistair is trustworthy--but there are some things that even he has a hard time saying.

* * *

 

Anders tried to warn me about the prejudice in this _stupid_ country—I should have listened to him. We hadn’t been out in public for more than an hour when the looks started… and I wasn’t even _doing_ anything—just holding his hand.

At the hotel, everything was fine. The night before, we’d had a lovely dinner with Kieran and Lily. We laughed a lot. Lily told us all about her parents and their funny antics at holidays. Kieran complained about his mother slightly, but explained that she was actually _great_ , most of the time. I hoped _I_ never gave him anything to complain about.

Today, we were sightseeing. We’d taken a transport boat from the hotel to the mainland. We docked just outside of the capital city. Anders wanted to see ruins, Lily wanted to eat at this particular restaurant that was supposed to be very authentic, and Kieran and I just wanted _them_ to be happy. Unfortunately, at the first shop we went into, I knew we were in for a rough day.

Lily opened the door for us. It had a bell that chimed annoyingly as it closed. The store was crowded with all sorts of trinkets and heady-smelling incense. It was giving me a headache already, but Anders really _liked_ this crap—not to own, but to look at, thankfully. He paused over a display case of crystals.

I leaned over him, wrapping a hand around his back, “Why do you like this weird stuff?”

He laughed, “I don’t know… I’m not going to clutter our house up with it… don’t worry…”

I kissed his cheek, “You could if you _wanted_ to…”

He smiled at me—a little nervously.

Suddenly, someone tapped my shoulder. It was Kieran.

“Alistair… I think we should get out of here,” he whispered. His eyes were darting from face to face around us in the shop. In seconds, every eye in the place had turned to us. It was probably one of the first times I’d felt a little threatened. As a white, non-disabled, attractive, man I have a lot of privilege—I’m the first to admit that.

“Yeah, I think you’re right,” I said, quietly ushering Anders and the kids out the door—the bell dinged again as we left.

“That was ridiculous,” I said when we were on the sidewalk. My face was really hot.

“I told you this was going to happen,” said Anders. He leaned against the side of a brick building. The sun was beating down on us, casting shadow on his face under that new hat, but I thought he might be more upset than he sounded.

“What happened?” asked Lily.

“You didn’t see those guys pointing and whispering?” asked Kieran.

She shook her head.

“They looked like they were going to _do_ something,” explained Kieran. He swallowed hard.

I looked back at Anders, whose gaze was fixed on the ground in front of us.

“Can you guys give us a second?” I asked Kieran.

He nodded and pulled Lily into an adjacent store.

“Are you okay?” I asked Anders.

He looked up at me and nodded.

“I’m sorry that happened…” I said. I reached out for his hand, but he backed away from me.

“It’s fine… It’s not the first time I’ve had this experience,” he said. “You just haven’t been in this scenario long enough to know what it’s like…”

“Well, it’s been _one day_ of this and I can already tell you it’s ridiculous,” I said. “...and I’m not going to let some assholes in a store stop me from being normal with you.”

“Alistair—are you insane?” said Anders suddenly, stepping away from the wall, “that shit is illegal here. It’s one thing at the hotel—no one’s going to say anything… but out here on the streets… we have to be careful.”

I bit the inside of my lip. “Okay… I love you, though.”

He looked up at me bit sadly, “I love you too.”

 

* * *

 

The subsequent days passed without the same level of trouble or outrage. I tried to content myself with walking _next to_ my fiancé. In this society, it would actually be more ‘ _appropriate_ ’ for Kieran and Lily to be all over each other—as _young teenagers_ —than for two grown adults of the same gender to hold hands. It’s outrageous and highlights how un-evolved we are as a species, despite my own little pocket of acceptance in Ferelden.

We spent the majority of the next few days around the hotel’s grounds. Although it was less historic, the white sand beaches and pool cabanas more than made up for it. …that _and_ the ability to be ourselves.

 

Anders and Lily went to the spa to take a yoga class together on the last morning, which left Kieran and I baking in the sun. Luckily, we can both get a tan.

“So has this been okay for you?” I asked, shielding my eyes from the sun.

“Yeah, Alistair—it’s been great. I have literally never eaten this much in my life.” He patted his stomach and laughed.

I rolled over onto my stomach and rested my chin in my hands. “Do you think Lily’s having fun?”

“Definitely,” he answered. He rolled so we were mirror images, side by side. “She’s probably going to be so spoiled, she’s not going to be able to go on a normal vacation ever again.”

I laughed.

“...me too, actually,” he joked.

“Well, _you_ don’t have to—and depending on how long you decide to keep Lily around, she won’t either,” I laughed.

He scowled, “what do you mean?”

“Kieran, you’re 16,” I blinked pointedly. “There are tons of people in the world—take it from me, don’t do anything _permanent_ too early.”

“I’m not delusional,” he rolled his eyes.

“She _is_ really nice, though,” I said encouragingly. “I like her a lot—so does Anders…”

Kieran blushed. He looked like he was about to say something else, but Anders and Lily were behind us a second later.

“Hey boys,” said Lily, plopping down on a chair under an umbrella.

I almost laughed—I was too young to be a normal parent, but I was also far too old to be addressed as a boy.

Anders kneeled next to me. “I am so relaxed, I could die.”

“I hope you _don’t_ ,” I laughed, turning toward him.

“Have you had a good morning?” he asked.

“Yes, Kieran and I were sort of bonding before you came over,” I whispered.

“I’m sorry I interrupted,” he feigned contrition.

 

* * *

 

We all laid there in the sun for the next several hours until I felt like my skin was vaguely on fire. “I’m going to head back up to the room,” I announced.

“We’ll be back sometime before dinner,” said Kieran.

Anders and Lily barely even acknowledged me.

Back in the room, I stumbled into the beautiful shower. I was going to miss this when I got home. I took my time washing my hair and I considered shaving my beard, but eventually decided against it. I had an itch to do that every once in a while, but I wasn’t sure if Anders would like it. I’d had a pretty thick beard the entire time we’d been dating.

While I was still deciding, I heard the door swing open. I couldn’t see him through the foggy glass, but I knew it was Anders. Well, at least I _hoped_ it was him—it was that or some murderer had come to kill me.

He wrapped his arms around my waist a second later.

“Hi Sweetie,” I whispered. I put my hand on top of his on my waist.

“Hi,” his voice was low and gravely. I knew what _that_ meant.

“Are the kids back?” I asked.

He rested his chin on my shoulder and pressed his chest against my back. “No.”

 _Thank the Maker_.

Anders trailed a hand down the plane of my abdomen as I arched back into him. He kissed a line down my neck and across my clavicle, orbiting me. Just as he was about to _kneel_ —a move I’ve seen him do too many times to _ever_ mistake the intention—we heard the door.

“Alistair?” called Lily.

“ _Fuck_ …” Anders froze and dropped his forehead onto my shoulder in defeat.

“I’m going to _die_ ,” I whispered, hugging him into my chest.

“Yeah, well, rubbing yourself all over me isn’t going to help,” he joked.

I stepped back from him, “I’ll be right out…” I called.

“Alistair, I need _help_ ,” yelled Kieran.

I can imagine nothing more sobering on earth than hearing your son call your name in the same sentence as the word, ‘help.’

I ran from the shower, almost slipping on the tile, and threw my pants on even though I was still wet. It felt horrible, but I didn’t even register how uncomfortable I was with the sound of Kieran’s voice still ringing in my ears. I ran through the bedroom and opened the door. When I looked, it was worse than I imagined it would be. Kieran was leaning on Lily, who was much too small for such a task, and clutching his head, which was bleeding profusely from above his eye.

“What happened?” I screeched.

The living room in this particular suite was sunken—three stairs down from the entryway and kitchen area. Kieran looked like he was having trouble with the steps.

“Just sit right there,” I cautioned, helping him down.

“He slipped on the pool deck and hit his head on one of those fake rocks that is really a speaker,” explained Lily.

“What did the staff do?” asked Anders. He grabbed my shoulder supportively.

“They were horrified,” she answered. “They asked if there was anything they could do, but Kieran just wanted to get back to you.”

My heart swelled slightly. _He wanted to be with me._

“Well, you need stitches,” said Anders. He was peering at Kieran’s bleeding head with detached composure.

“I had a feeling,” managed Kieran. He was starting to look really pale.

“I’m going to call down to the front desk to see what the procedure for this situation is,” said Anders.

 

* * *

 

A few hours later, we were back from the on-site medical depot. Kieran had eight stitches above his left eye, but the doctor who did them assured us the scar would be minimal.

“I think I need to get some sleep,” said Kieran.

I led him toward his room and pulled the covers back. “If you feel anything weird in the night, just come get me, okay?”

He nodded and closed his eyes. He looked exhausted.

Lily was looking at us from the doorway. “Good night, Kieran,” she said.

He mouthed, “good night,” but he was already mostly asleep.

“I love you,” I whispered. I said those words in the most cowardly of ways. I waited until I was 99% sure he was asleep and then croaked them out of the recesses of my larynx. I wasn’t counting on Anders, though—he caught me.

“If you’re done _crying_ …” he joked from the doorway.

I felt my face flush as I snuck noiselessly out of the room.

We tucked ourselves into bed. Uncharacteristically, I had shorts on. I needed to be ready—and decent—if Kieran needed anything.

“I wasn’t crying,” I blurted suddenly.

Anders looked up from his novel appraisingly. “Were you or were you not _secretly_ telling your son you loved him?”

No matter how petulant I was feeling, I couldn’t stifle a laugh at that.

“I’m too scared to tell him when he’s awake—16-year-olds are _mean_ ,” I argued.

Anders laughed and set his book down on the bedside table. “You’re ridiculously sweet. You know that?” He rolled so we were face to face on our sides.

“Yeah, yeah… I’m sure that’s what you tell all the boys…”

“—and the girls,” added Anders, his commitment to jokes unflappable.

“Hilarious…” I rolled my eyes.

We let the laughter fade between us. It felt like a warm blanket of familiarity.

“This really has been a _wonderful_ vacation,” said Anders seriously. “Excluding the stitches, of course…”

“Of course,” I echoed.

“I mean… it’s really amazing to be on a vacation with the love of my life…” he added. “And that we’re both here—alive and healthy—after everything…”

I cupped his cheek and nodded. I knew exactly what he meant.

 

* * *

 

In some ways, I have always felt guilty that I got to have this great life after Cullen died. If we’re looking only at the facts, he didn’t really do much that I didn’t do. He had an affair. I had an affair. He lied to his wife. I lied to my wife. He eventually broke my heart. I eventually broke his. The deviation was mortality—I lived while he didn’t.

Whenever I start to get down on myself like this, I’m reminded about one little thing I haven’t told you. It’s a story that I don’t even recite to myself—I don’t like _thinking_ about it. Remember when I told you that I never spoke to Cullen after our blowout at his house? Well, I  haven’t been _completely_ honest.

 

**Three Years Ago**

“Then what’s the unfair way?!” I shouted into the phone. It was more of a strangled sob, really.

Cullen was in the process of explaining why he hadn’t called. One key detail I’ve failed to mention up until now is that he intimated that he would call me one week after unceremoniously throwing me out of his house. We were standing in the driveway. What he actually said was: _I’m not going to call you for a week_. Ostensibly, this was to 'save me from myself' or some such nonsense—as if _he_ should be in control of my emotional well being.

I took that to mean, ‘ _I’m going to call you in a week_.’

**_Exactly seven days._ **

I waited—with baited breath—for those days to pass. This all went down on a Friday. I was a complete disaster from Friday through Sunday. I could barely put a sentence together. In the back of my mind I kept imagining a scenario where he called me and said, _'a week is too long._ ' Clearly, no such call arrived.

On Monday, I had to do some things, so I managed to get dressed. This was a monumental feat. I made it to the drug store around the corner just in time to lose my shit when I saw a patron whose curls vaguely reminded me of Cullen’s.

Tuesday was more of the same—vaguely functional, but morose.

By Wednesday, I started to get angry. I almost had sex with a random friend who was in town, but decided against it at the last second. It wouldn’t have made me feel better anyway—it was just something to pass the time.

Because _remember_ , in the back of my mind, I was waiting for Friday: the day when Cullen would call and we would sort through this.

Thursday, I felt like an actual human. I managed to go to the gym and get a good workout in. Friday morning, I was on top of the world. I rehearsed everything I was going to say over and over. I drove around in my car listening to blisteringly loud music and belting out the words to every power ballad in my possession. I was ready.

 _Only, he never called_.

By Friday night I was a shell of a person. It might have even been _worse_ than the original shell I was the Friday before. Because he’d _tricked_ me again. The first time, it was a shock—there was no warning. But _this_ time, it was part of a pattern.

On Saturday morning, I broke down and texted him. I regretted it almost instantly, but it was _out there_ —in the ether of the internet, never to return. The text said, ‘this is ridiculous. I wanted to text you yesterday about something that happened, but I couldn’t because we’re not speaking… or whatever…”

It was lame and passive aggressive while also eviscerating the seriousness of my own feelings of abandonment. I’m not arguing it was a _good_ thing to say… but it _happened_.

He texted back a few hours later. “I’m not trying to ignore you. I’m just not sure what to say.”

My heart was in my throat. I shook as I typed back to him.

“I’m not doing this by text. I’m going to call you on Friday.”

I reasoned that at least this put the ball back in my court and gave me a few days to prepare. In truth, I was just desperate to talk to him. At this point, I had convinced myself that this whole thing was probably _my_ _fault_. I’d probably blown his reaction _way_ out of proportion. He probably wasn’t _actually_ evil—I overreacted; that’s all. I was feeling so much embarrassment, I couldn't discern what the truth was anymore—I'd lost perspective.

 

So on this particular day, when I _finally_ got him on the phone after the most torturous two weeks of my life, he said something I’ll never forget.

“I don’t understand why you didn’t at least call…” I sputtered. “You said you weren’t going to call for a week… so I thought that meant that at the _end_ of the week you’d call.”

“Well,” he cleared his throat, “I was planning to, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized that you’re right—there’s _nothing_ left to say… at least nothing that would be _fair_ to you.”

“What is the unfair way?” I asked.

“To lie to you,” he retorted.

He was being so _reasonable_ today. It was worse than the alternative. “Couldn't you just be mean? It would make this so much easier,” I mumbled. “Why couldn't you have just been mean from the beginning?”

He almost laughed. “Like… I should have just fucked you the first weekend we met and been done with it?”

Tears burned in the corners of my eyes, but I didn't let my voice show it. “Something…”

I could tell he wanted to hang up. He had a whole set of nonsensical phrases and breathing patterns he used for it—I knew them all.

In my desperation to prevent that, I blurted, “Can't we just fix this?”

He made a noncommittal sound.

“Maybe you could just call me and talk to me about normal stuff… maybe at regular intervals,” I suggested. This was a new low for me. I had never begged anyone to _speak_ to me before. I was usually so well liked—people even admired me. I had never felt so worthless.

“Yes,” he cleared his throat, “but I have to tell you… it's going to take a while until I can just call you up and not think about this…” he paused. “Until I don't feel _weird_ anymore,” he added.

That sentence hurt the most. It _still_ hurts. My subconscious dredges it up whenever I start to cycle into self loathing and doubt. For example, when I hadn't yet heard from my publisher about the final draft of the book, it played on a loop in the back of my mind. A reminder of my value. A reminder that _I_ was the one who made it 'weird' by being honest.

We let the conversation wander. He told me about renting a sports car for the express purpose of driving it around a race track. I sat in stunned silence while tears streamed down my cheeks. Eventually we hung up. I can't remember what he sounded like when we said goodbye, but I remember the hole in my guts that it left.

I spent the next several days having fake arguments with him in my head. they were _out_ _loud_ when I was alone.

I finally wrote him a letter:

 **[** Cullen,

It took me a while to figure out what I wanted out of all of this—what I _expected—_ but I've done it. After what happened, I knew you weren't _in love_ with me, but I still thought you loved me—like a friend, like an intimate, like a part of yourself. So when I was finally brave enough to be honest with you, I thought you would be _proud_ of me—even if I did pick literally the worst way to do it. I thought that when the dust settled you would say, “I'm so sorry, Alistair. I don't feel the same way, but I still _need_ you in my life. Let's find a way to fix this together.”

But you didn't say any of that.

Instead, you ignored me. You treated my vulnerability as a mess you'd rather not clean up—dishes left in the sink overnight. So now I _know_ : we were never as close as I thought we were. It's disappointing and it's _more_ heartbreaking than knowing you aren't in love with me. Being with you felt like finally being _known_.

If you want to talk sometime in the future, I'm sure you'll reach out. But don't do it because you think you're doing me a favor—I have enough acquaintances; I only needed a confidant. _If_ you call someday, do it because you missed me—because you _feel_ my absence. Otherwise, just live your life. I'll be living mine. **]**

 

_And he never called again._

 

So, when I think about my life with Anders, I'm a _little_ guilty… but not that much. Cullen made his choices. _He's_ responsible—not me.


	23. Election - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair can't believe what's happening in the country. In the aftermath of a political disaster, he loses sight of what's important and ends up hurting someone close to him.

* * *

 

“What the actual _fuck_ is happening right now?!” I screamed at the TV.

Anders was next to me on the couch, cringing.

It was only 9:45pm—still early enough for things to turn around, but a pit was forming in my stomach nevertheless.

“Don’t freak out,” soothed Anders. “She’s still leading in a lot of districts… They haven’t even finished counting all the votes yet.”

I nodded and swallowed the last sip of my fourth beer of the night. I drank with frequency back then, but four beers in the course of two hours was a bit much, even for me. Something deep in my soul told me that the outcome of this election was not going to be favorable. I was starting to sweat.

“I just don’t understand… every political pundit and analyst agreed she was going to win!” I shouted. “...in a _landslide_!” I let my head flop into his chest as emphatic punctuation.

He pursed his lips and kissed the side of my head, but didn’t say anything.

“I mean, look at Wolf Blitzer!” I yelled, “He’s totally losing his shit…”

Wolf was my second-favorite CNN anchor—next to Anderson Cooper.

“Maybe we should go to bed,” suggested Anders.

“What?”

“You aren’t going to _change_ anyone’s vote by obsessively watching the analysts shriek,” he argued.

I shrugged against his chest and turned my head to bury my nose in his sweater. He smelled so good.

“I guess we could try…” I acquiesced.

“I’ll make it worth your while,” he smirked.

I hit him with a couch pillow and laughed. “I don’t have time for sex right now—the world might be ending.”

“You’re telling me that sex isn’t at the top of your ‘ _world ending_ ’ list?”

I couldn’t argue with that. I followed him to our bedroom.

 

* * *

 

Several hours later, though, I couldn’t sleep. My heart was beating erratically—pulsing through my chest. I settled into a pseudo-sleep, full of nightmares and gasping awakenings. Finally, I couldn’t take it. I got up.

I turned the TV down low and saw that my worst nightmare had come true. The populace of Ferelden had elected a bigoted misogynist.  My favored candidate, who was blessed with wit, intellect, and experience was saddled with one attribute that made her unelectable—a _vagina_.

From 2:30am to 4am I watched the news cycle in slack-jawed disbelief. When our new would-be leader took the stage to speak, I finally turned it off. I couldn’t stand it. I thought about going back upstairs and waking up Anders, but it seemed selfish—he had to work in the morning. So did I, actually, but I couldn’t imagine sleeping. Instead, I haunted our apartment like a ghost. I wandered from the kitchen to the couch and back again in utter silence.

Eventually, I must have fallen asleep. It was 6:05am when I opened my eyes again. Anders was up and getting ready for the day. For a split second, I forgot that everything in the world was _wrong_ —that the country I loved had _betrayed_ me. As soon as I saw his face, though, I remembered.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

I shook my head and crossed to hug him. When my face was buried deeply in his shoulder, I found myself sobbing.

I had never cried about politics before. It alarmed me as much as it felt like a catharsis. This election marked the end of a golden age of acceptance. The threatened feeling I had in that shop in Rivain always felt like something that happened _other_ places—now I was afraid it would happen here.

“Love, it’s okay…” shushed Anders.

“It’s _not_ okay.” I backed up, suddenly furious. “The whole world is going to shit and you want me to _calm down_?”

Anders cocked his head to the side and rubbed my shoulder. “Of course not… I’m just saying… we’re going to be fine—just take a breath.”

 

* * *

 

I can’t remember the details of that first day after the election. I moved through my life in slow motion. I couldn’t manage to smile. Every person I passed on the street was suddenly a potential enemy. The barista could have voted for _him_. My assistant might be one of _them_. I wasn’t sure whom to trust.

On the whole, my office felt like a funeral. Ashen faces nodded to each other in solemn comisery.

By the time I got home that night, I was ready to sleep. Feeling all these emotions for myself was exhausting enough, but I felt like I’d been holding my entire staff’s emotions too. I often martyred myself in crises.

“Love you,” called Anders, when he heard me come in. He was tending to four steaming pots on the range and sipping—no, _guzzling_ —a glass of wine.

“I love you too…” I mumbled. I wrapped my arms around his waist and leaned into him. “I don’t think I’m ever going to recover… I’ve lost faith in humanity.”

He nodded—not like he _agreed_ with my hyperbole, but like he wanted to be supportive anyway.

“...I mean… I always believed that deep down, people were good—that they cared about other humans more than they cared about economics or their fucking guns…” I sputtered. “...but they aren’t—they _tricked_ me.”

I was fighting back tears for the 50th time today.

“Love…” Anders turned in the circle of my arms and kissed my cheek. “This is all going to feel better in the morning… I promise.”

I was desperate to believe him.

 

* * *

 

Exactly a week later, I’d managed to move out of the misery stage and into the _irate_ one. I talked to anyone who would listen about how ‘horrifying,’ ‘ridiculous,’ and ‘disturbing,’ it all was.

That was the point when I started to see a parallel: this felt _just like_ breaking up with Cullen. The last time I’d cried this hard, it was for him. The last time I’d felt this alone, it was because he left me. The last time I’d felt such a sense of righteous indignation it was because he tricked me.

With that in the back of my mind, Anders and I went to meet our friends at a bar downtown. After a week of seclusion, we felt like we needed to do _something_.

Anders invited his friend Isabela, who dragged along her boyfriend Fenris. He was sort of an enigma, but he often came up with witty one-liners that I liked a lot. We’d all become rather close in the last year or so. Close enough that when we got into the meat of our political discussion, I felt like I could tell them about my Cullen epiphany from earlier.

“...when I finally stopped talking to Cullen...that felt like the worst day of my life,” I began. I watched Fenris and Isabela cock their heads to the side like mechanical birds.

 _“Until_ _the election_ ,” I added. “...but I’ve been thinking about it and… there’s something that links these days…”

Anders made a face in my periphery, but I wasn’t sure what it meant. It was transient, anyway.

I continued, “Cullen was a person I thought I knew—someone I trusted implicitly. I knew he had problems, but I _thought_ he would always be there for me if I needed him. I never imagined he'd turn on _me_ , even if he _was_ horrible to everyone else. But I overestimated him. I believed in a soul that was kind and gentle—a soul that was _never_ really there at all.”

I was starting to get carried away now. I could feel a tear prickling in the corner of my eye.

“I believed in our government that way too. I didn't know it until my hands were shaking and my heart was in my throat, but I _believed_ in its goodness deep down—implicitly, intrinsically… _naively_.”

Fenris wrapped an arm around Isabela’s shoulders.

“...but I overestimated it. I imbued it with goodness and benevolence when none existed there at all. My worldview changed at 2:30 in the morning... I'll always remember this Election Day.”

We all looked into our cups and sighed—collective consciousness thick in the air.

Finally, I raised my glass, “To the next four years—may we continue to learn about ourselves… and may we _survive_ them.”

Everyone sort of laughed after that. We managed to find a macabre rhythm of humor and sadness. Except Anders—something was going on with him: something I couldn’t name.

 

* * *

 

“Are you okay?” I asked on the way home. I glanced over at him from the driver’s seat while he stared blankly out the window.

“Are _you_?” he scoffed.

I squinted. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know—you seem to be pretty fucking wounded…” he muttered. He wouldn’t look at me.

I pulled the car over in a fit. “What is going on?”

“The way you talk about Cullen, it’s like that’s the most important relationship of your whole fucking life.” He gritted his teeth and punched the glove box.

“That’s ridiculous, Anders.”

“Is it?” He looked at me for the first time since we got into the car.

“You _know_ it is…” I rolled my eyes. “I love you… I’m _marrying_ you.”

“ _Are_ you?” he asked flippantly. “I don’t actually see any evidence of that… what has it been? A _year_ since we decided to do that?” He laughed ironically. “...and you’ve been dragging your feet about setting a date, _let alone_ making any actual plans.”

Now I was getting angry. “You know very _fucking_ well that I have been through some shit since we got engaged…”

“Exactly—shit that has to do with Cullen,” he shouted.

I growled into the skin of my palms. We let silence fall around us. I could hear him breathing next to me, but I didn’t look up.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore,” said Anders finally. His voice was soft and calm. That was the scariest part.

“What?” I shrieked, looking up at him. “One fucking dinner where I talk about someone who meant a lot to me—who is now _dead_ , by the way—and we’re breaking up?”

Anders didn’t say anything.

“This is a _ridiculous_ overreaction,” I announced.

That was _not_ the right thing to say. He looked at me like I’d just punched him.

“Fuck you, Al—fuck...” Anders turned and unlocked the car door. Before I could grab his arm, he was outside on the pavement. I jumped out the driver’s side door and chased him up the street.

“What the hell are you doing?” I asked.

“Calling a cab.”

“Why?” I was so flabbergasted, I couldn’t see that I’d hurt him—that I’d been hurting him for ages—with my self-centeredness. I made everything about _me_ in those days.

He just laughed—bitter and cold.

“Anders… please get back in the car… let’s talk about this,” I suggested.

“What is there to say?” he asked. “Are you sorry?”

“Sorry?!” I felt my eyebrows rise, “for _what_?”

“Perfect…” he kicked the ground with his foot. He looked like he was going to argue, but he seemed to change his mind. He followed me back to the car.

We drove the rest of the way in silence and eventually fell into bed. If he wasn’t ready to speak yet, I wasn’t going to force him. I wasn’t ready either, actually. I was raw and angry. The whole world was falling apart—why should _we_ be any different? I fell asleep on my right side, facing away from him. Our bed was wide enough that I couldn’t feel him behind me, but I didn’t care. I was seething.

 


	24. Election - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair wakes up the next morning and deals with fallout from the fight. He's still reeling from the election and can't seem to keep it together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated M: implied sex and Alistair has a potty mouth.

* * *

 

“Anders?” I blinked into the morning light streaming in through a crack in our curtains. “Anders? What time is it?”

I sat up and looked around. Adrian was by the foot of the bed, looking perplexed.

“Anders?” I called again, padding into the kitchen.

That’s when I saw it: a crisp bit of white paper with a scrawling note written diagonally across its edges.

 **[** _I need to go away for a while. Don’t call me._ **]**

“What the fuck?” I said aloud. I reread the letter several times. Calling it a ‘letter’ was actually absurd; it was barely two sentences.

I immediately picked up my phone and dialed his number—in direct opposition to his directions. It went straight to voicemail.

“Anders,” I began recording. “Where did you go? Sweetie… I’m sorry about last night… but this is _ridiculous_. Call me as soon as you get this.” I hung up. I have to admit, it wasn’t a very good ‘come home’ voicemail. I didn't tell him I loved him. I didn’t even _really_ apologize. I was so sure I was _right_ —I was ready to let it ruin us. In the back of my mind, I was already picturing telling our friends we’d broken up.

After two cups of coffee, I started to get reckless. I stalked around our apartment looking for his things. I pawed through the pockets of his jackets and rifled through his desk drawers. I’m not even sure what I was looking for—a legitimate reason to be mad maybe? Something that would prove he wasn’t perfect either. To be honest, I was sick of being the ‘bad’ one in the relationship. I was tired of the low grade guilt that I was supposed to bear for having an affair with Cullen. I’d already been punished—he was _dead_.

“The love of my life is dead,” I said suddenly. The words slipped out before I really inspected them, but in the moment they felt true. I sank to my knees on the carpet and cried. “Cullen, what the fuck were you thinking? I needed you—I still need you.”

I’m not sure what came over me that day. I think it has to do with honesty, though. When someone behaves horribly, it’s not socially acceptable to love him. But I _did_ love Cullen.

Telling other people that I _didn’t_ went over better. People love the, ‘ _I thought I loved him, but I didn’t know what love was_ ,’ story, but it simply wasn’t true. I _knew_ what he was—and I loved him _anyway_. At that time in my life, that was as close to unconditional as I could imagine. And right now—with Anders running away from me at the slightest provocation—my current relationship seemed pretty damn _conditional_.

Isabela sent me a text. It was unusual to hear from her—she usually would have gone through Anders. I picked up the phone.

 **Isabela:** ask Andy if he wants to get together with us later. You can come too  <3

I wiped a hand across my brow. I wasn't sure how to explain it. So I didn't. I lied.

 **Alistair:** Anders is going to be in court all day and I think we're going to need some *alone time* when we gets home…

 **Isabela:** say no more.  See you guys soon! ;)

I sighed. It wouldn't work forever, but at least I'd bought myself some time to figure out what to do.

 

* * *

 

The next three days passed without incident. Horrifyingly, I couldn't muster any of the feelings I had about the election for Anders. I was barely even upset. If anything, I felt _liberated_ , which horrified me. 

On Friday, I picked up Kieran and took him to dinner.

“So… are you doing better?” he asked me.

“Yes… somewhat… I feel like the whole world is different, though…”

“I know what you mean.” He nodded into his water glass. “Where's Anders?”

I had been dreading this. “He's not going to be around for a while.”

Kieran squinted. “Is he on a business trip?”

I stalled by sipping my beer and pretending to cough.

“Oh…” said Kieran. “I _see_.”

Of course he saw right through me. Not only was he perceptive, but he'd seen his mother go through two divorces in his life. He knew the signs.

“Lily's going to be devastated,” he mused.

I rolled my eyes. “She'll get over it. If _I_ can, she certainly will.”

Kieran looked worried, “You're _over it_ already? What _happened_?”

It was my usual way to spill all the details in a breakup—to get _my_ truth out there first and amass allies—but this wasn't a friend I was talking to, this was my _son._ I needed to keep it together.

“I don't know,” I hedged. “I'm not even sure it's really over… we're just taking some _time_.”

“Well… I'm really sorry, Al…” he twisted the fabric of his sleeve nervously. “I know how much you loved him.”

 _I loved him_? Oh god—the past tense. As soon as I heard someone else say it, I knew—I was making the biggest mistake of my life.

We finished dinner together and I dropped him off at Morrigan’s. She waved to me through the kitchen window, but I didn't come inside. We'd talked a few times at this point, which was _weird_ and deserves a whole other story that would also explain why Kieran wasn’t driving the car I bought him... But for now, suffice it to say that we were on _cordial_ terms.

As soon as Kieran closed the door behind him, my mind started spinning. I wasn't sure where to go, but _home_ didn't seem right. I needed to find Anders—before it was too late.

I picked up my phone to call Isabela; by now, she'd know where he was.

“Hey, Al.”

“Hi… Um…” I was suddenly nervous. “I don't want to put you in the middle, but…”

“—but you're going to anyway?” she laughed.

“Well… yes.” I paused, “where is he?”

“At a hotel downtown, I'll text you the address.”

That was easier than I expected. I had a whole speech planned for when she refused to tell me on principle.

“Thanks, Bel—I really appreciate it.”

“Just don't sell me out as the one who told,” she warned. “He's going to be _pissed_.”

I swallowed hard and hung up. _Pissed_?

When the text came through, I felt a little sick: Anders was staying in the hotel where we met—well, after we met in my office, I suppose. The one where we almost became something before we were ever something.

 

* * *

 

“Hi,” I said to the concierge, “I'm Alistair—”

She interrupted me, “Mr. Theirin,” she smiled, “I know who you are… do you need your usual suite?”

It struck me as odd that she'd remember me. I had stayed here a few times with Anders when our apartment was being renovated, but I really hadn't spent any serious time here since that first time—years ago.

“Not today…” I suddenly changed my mind, “actually, _yes…_ ” I pulled out my wallet. I felt like I should have it on standby—for sentimental reasons. “But the real reason I'm here is because my boyfriend is staying here, but I don't know which room…” I smiled charmingly.

She looked stricken, “I'm so sorry, Ser, but we aren't allowed to give that kind of information out…”

“I realize that… it's just… it's sort of an emergency, and I think he might have lost his phone, so I don't know how to contact him…” I lied.

“I’m really, really sorry…” she began saying. Then she looked over my shoulder as someone spoke.

“It’s all right,” said Anders. I hadn’t seen him yet, but I knew from his tone that he was smirking at her. She was probably hopelessly in love with him—just like every other young woman we ran into in our lives. Just like _me_ , actually…

He put a hand on my shoulder and I let him turn me.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi.” He pushed a lock of hair out of his eyes.

“Can I buy you a drink?” I looked over at the bar in the lobby—that bar where he harassed me about living in this hotel in the first place.

He nodded.

 

“So…” he began. “Are you here to apologize?”

The bartender dropped our drinks on the bar noisily.

“I’m sorry—I should have come to find you days ago,” I said.

“Why?” he asked. His appearance confused me. He was wearing a thin cashmere sweater and jeans that were tight enough to make me pause, but his muscles were tense. I could see a vein on the side of his neck pulsing slightly. I think he was scared.

“Because I _love_ you,” I answered. I reached out for his hand, which was resting against his thigh. Our stools were close enough together that our knees slotted. “Honestly, I don’t even understand how we got here…”

His eyes narrowed. “You don’t?”

Based on his expression, that felt like the _wrong_ thing to say.

“Well…” I made a strange, strangled sound somewhere deep in my throat.

He waited for a minute, but eventually seemed to give up. He sighed irritatedly, “Alistair, I want to be the most important person in your life.”

“What?”

“I want to be the person you care about the _most_ ,” he clarified. “I have to set a boundary somewhere, Al—I want to marry someone who isn’t pining over a dead person. I mean, it would be bad enough if you’d just had a bad breakup—a complicated history and emotional wounds… but the fact that he’s _dead_ immortalizes him.”

I tried to interrupt Anders’ rant, but he shushed me.

“If he were alive, we could call him an asshole and laugh at all the ridiculously horrible things he did to people, but with him _dead_ we just remember all the potential he had and how horrible it is that people still die of AIDS in this day and age.” He closed his eyes in exasperation.

“Anders… let’s go upstairs… I got _our_ room,” I said suddenly. What I _meant_ was ‘let’s settle this by having sex and _never_ talk about it again.’

He saw right through me, “Al, we need to actually deal with this—not fuck it out.”

“Then tell me what to do. I’ll do anything.”

“I wish that I knew,” he sighed, “but let’s not waste that suite…”

I didn’t know exactly what he meant, or why he’d had a sudden change of heart about the fucking, but I wasn’t going to argue. I took him upstairs post haste and _ravaged_ him. It was like I’d never had sex with him before—it was terrifying and perfect. But when the dust settled, it didn't feel right.

“I love you,” I whispered into his ear. We were sweating and covered in a variety of bodily fluids, but I couldn’t have thought he was more beautiful if I’d tried. I wrapped my arms around his waist and pulled him flush against my chest.

“I love you too,” he said. “When I was gone… did you miss me?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer him. My knee jerk reaction was ‘ _of course_ ,’ but as I’ve already admitted, I had some _other_ —less favorable—feelings while we were apart. I was never a very honest person—I tended toward lying as a default—but with Anders, I wanted to be better, so I told the truth.

“I felt a lot of things while you were away.” As I started to answer, I pulled and rolled him until we were face to face, blankets pooling around our hips. “At first, I was outraged, then I was a little frantic… but honestly, I was mostly just _numb_.”

He exhaled pointedly.

“I can’t really explain it…” I mumbled.

“ _I_ can.”

Anders didn’t move at all. His hand was still resting gently on my side. His head was still pillowed on a folded arm. But he might as well have left the room.

“I’m not _the one_.”

 

“That is absolutely not true,” I gripped the skin of his hip a little desperately.

“It’s okay, Al…” he leaned in, nuzzling into my neck. “Some things just aren’t meant to last forever… it doesn’t make them worth any less.”

I felt like I couldn’t breathe. This person I loved, this person I was holding in my arms, this person who was _inside_ me ten minutes earlier was breaking up with me. And it didn’t seem like there was anything I could do. In fact, it seemed like I was the one who _caused_ this.

“Please don’t say that…” I kissed his cheek and nose and the side of his jaw. “We can fix this…” Of course, I wasn’t even sure what was broken. “It’s not even _us_ —it’s me. This is just something wrong with _me…_ I’ll go to therapy—” I sputtered.

“Love…” he started to pull away.

I grabbed onto him harder. “Sweetheart, this has been the worst string of days in my adult life; we _lost_ the election… I will get back on track… I just need some time.”

He shook his head. His stubble grazed my collarbone as he moved.

“Please…” I whispered. “Please don't make any decisions right now…”

It was the strangest break up I could imagine—we were completely naked, legs intermingled, kissing every bit of skin we could reach. And yet the distance between us was, apparently, insurmountable.

* * *

 

We held each other until morning. When I opened my eyes, he was still asleep in my arms. I didn’t want to wake him up.

“Hi,” he whispered. His lips were soft against my chest.

“I love you,” I breathed.

“I know…”

He sounded _resigned_. I wondered how this was going to go.

“I better get going,” he said gently. He got out of bed and walked into the bathroom without looking back. When he closed the door, I wondered if this was the last morning I’d ever wake up with him. 

I picked up the phone and ordered a pot of coffee and some light breakfast. By the time he came out of the bathroom, hair wet and dressed from the waist down, it had been delivered.

“Want some breakfast?” I asked. I wasn’t at all dressed yet. Getting dressed seemed tantamount to admitting defeat. It seemed like _giving up_.

“I think I’ll be okay… I have to be in court later this morning,” he answered.

I knew that meant he didn’t want to eat. He got nervous every time he had to be in front of a jury, no matter how many years he was in practice—he did better without a full stomach. It hurt to think how intimately I knew him.

“How about some coffee, then?” I asked.

He nodded.

“So… I’m afraid to ask,” I cleared my throat. “...but are you _really_ not coming home?”

He pursed his lips. “I can’t.”

My temper flared, “Can’t or _won’t_?”

He looked at me disparagingly. “Al, I love you—but I need certain things in my life. Life is too short…”

“I can give you whatever you need me to…” I cried. I lunged at him and wrapped my arms around his waist. It was pitiful.

“Alistair, please,” he tried to shake me off. “This is hard enough for me already…”

“You seem _fine_ to me.”

He took a steadying breath. “My heart is _breaking_ , Alistair… I just need to get the fuck out of here.” His voice broke slightly. I went from anger to desperation in a second.

“Anders… I am so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. I still don’t,” I wrapped him in a squeezing hug. “Please, let’s start over.”

He shook his head against my shoulder.

“At least… um,” I looked around the room, desperate, “stay here… in the suite… take some time to yourself… and then when you’re ready—”

“Al, you can’t _buy_ me,” said Anders suddenly. He pushed me away—both hands flat on my chest. “I have my own room… I did just _fine_ without you before we met.”

“I know, Sweetheart,” I soothed. “You’re incredibly capable… I just want to make everything easier for you. I want to take care of you…”

He let his head drop back on my shoulder and I thought I heard him sob.

“This has been the most insane week of my life,” I said into his hair, “I feel like I haven't woken up from some kind of deranged nightmare. I've been a complete asshole, and I don't know how to fix myself other than letting time pass, but I _do_ know that I love you… more than anything in the world…”

I wrapped a hand around the back of his neck.

“...and I want to _marry_ you,” I added. It was true—I’d never meant it more than that very second.

He looked up at me, tears in his eyes. “You do?”

“I want to be with you for the rest of my life.”

“ _Okay_.”

I squinted at him, trying to understand what question he was answering.

“Okay? Okay what?”

“Let’s get married—right now.”

I felt my eyes widen, but not in horror—in unbelievable wonder and gratitude. I kissed him until I wondered if I would asphyxiate. “ _Fuck yes._ ”


	25. Election - Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wedding!!!!!
> 
> Alistair and Anders conclude their week-long fight by committing to each other. Their friends show up as witnesses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated T: Alistair swears a lot...

* * *

 

Three hours later, we were climbing the steps of the courthouse two at a time.

“Did you call Isabela?” I asked. My voice came out in stuttering bursts from the exertion of stair climbing. I’ve always found stairs to be especially winding—no matter how fit I am.

“She’s on her way with Fenris—they also called Merrill and Varric,” he answered.

I’d called Kieran and Morrigan. Everyone was on their way. This was _really_ happening. I grabbed his hand between us and pulled him against me.

“I love you.” I smiled and tried to keep from crying. I was going to marry this person _today_ —before some insane dictator could tell me it was illegal. (I was still reeling from the election, no matter how happy I was with Anders.)

“Are you sure this is what you want?” I looked up at him with trepidation. I knew I’d been an asshole this week… and I couldn’t necessarily promise that I’d _always_ do better—but I would _try_.

“Maker, yes.” He kissed me hard. “I've never wanted anything more.”

Inside, we were greeted by a few familiar faces. Kieran was standing nervously in the hallway with Morrigan. Apparently, the woman I'd _impregnated_ in a coat closet 17 years ago was going to bear witness to my nuptials. I was so elated that I didn't even care—life is funny like that sometimes.

“Hi, Alistair,” called Kieran. He smiled at us broadly.

“You didn't even bother to wear a suit?” commented Morrigan. It was seemingly an aside to an invisible audience.

“We decided this on sort of a whim,” shrugged Anders.

I gripped his hand, “only the scheduling—I've been waiting my whole _life_ to do this…”

Morrigan rolled her eyes, but I thought she might be barely concealing a smile. Kieran grinned from under his bangs.

Isabela _et al_ came up behind me a minute later. “So… are you ready for this?” she asked. Her eyes were smiling even though she was making a teasing expression.

Anders nodded. He was looking more confident—more like his attorney-self.

“I wasn’t asking _you_ ,” she glared at him.

We both squinted at her.

She peeled out in laughter, “I mean… you’re marrying him without a prenup. _You’re_ going to make bank on this one…”

I rolled my eyes. I’d already decided that everything I had was his anyway.

Our laughter died abruptly when the court attendant called us to the desk. He looked at us appraisingly as he handed us some paperwork.

“I need you to fill out these forms,” he said disinterestedly. “Initials here, here, and here,” he pointed. “Then signatures here, below what you’d like your names to be…”

I was nervous. I _hoped_ Anders didn’t expect me to change my name. We hadn’t actually talked about this particular thing. He was holding the pen first. Anders initialed in three places, signed at the  bottom and then wrote—with perfect penmanship— “ _Anders Theirin_.”

I swooned.

As he passed the pen to me, he wrapped an arm around my waist. I signed everything and passed it back to the nonplussed desk clerk. I tried not to feel unnerved that this random stranger didn’t care about our big day. Why would he? _He_ didn’t know that 24 hours ago I’d thought this part of my life was over.

“Go have a seat over there and we’ll call you…” the clerk mumbled.

I pulled Anders down into the seat next to me and kissed him. “You want my name?” I asked.

He wasn’t prone to blushing, but I saw a tiny bit of pink dust the apples of his cheeks.

“I have no allegiance to _my_ family—you know that.” He pushed his hair back.

I _did_ know—that’s yet another story. I’ll get to that one eventually, I promise.

“Besides, _you’re_ my family now…” he whispered. His lips brushed my ear as he spoke. As much as this entire week had felt like a nightmare, this afternoon felt _ethereal_. 

“And… if we have kids… then we’ll all have the same name…” he mentioned—as if he was talking about the weather.

“I might have done a lot in the last 24 hours, but I’m not ready to add _that_ one into the mix,” I laughed.

He smiled at me. “Neither am I… I’m just saying…”

 

* * *

 

The ceremony was over before I could really even process what was happening. I'd said “I do,” and “I will” and then it was done. We kissed. Our friends cheered.

“What should we do now?” I asked when we were outside on the steps.

“Let’s eat and drink _all the things_!” shouted Isabela.

Anders laughed, “I’m game… but I have to check with my _husband_.” He turned toward me and leaned in until our noses touched.

“Anything you want,” I mumbled, kissing him.

“Okay, let’s go to that bar I like downtown…” he broke off from me and put an arm around Isabela’s neck.

“Congratulations, Alistair,” said Kieran afterward. He hugged me.

“Thanks, Kieran,” I whispered. It was a whisper because I couldn't seem to make my voice sound normal—it was thick with emotion.

“I’m really glad you two worked it out,” he said, backing up.

“I need to get this one home,” said Morrigan. She kissed my cheek, which was a little _alarming_ , but not unpleasant. “We’ll talk soon about getting together…”

Kieran smiled at me over his shoulder as they made their way toward the car.

“Now that we’ve ditched the kid, what do you _really_ want to do?” asked Varric. He was kidding, but I bristled with some kind of paternal instinct.

Anders brushed him off. “We’ll meet you guys there—Isabela already called ahead.”

We walked off in the opposite direction of the others.

“Sweetheart,” I wrapped an arm around Anders and kissed his cheek. “ _Husband,_ ” I corrected. “Are you okay?”

He smiled. His hips brushed against mine as we walked. “I just married the love of my life. What could be wrong?”

That phrase struck me—the _love of his life_. That was what I'd yelled a week ago when I was tearing through his things, thinking about Cullen. Although I know what Anders _meant_ , I don't believe in it. I don't think we have _one_ love for our lives. I don't ascribe to the idea of ‘ _the one_ ’. I think that people shape us, though. And I think that the day I married Anders, I changed into a new type of Alistair—I just didn't know it yet.

 

* * *

 

Inside the bar, election coverage was blaring from TVs in every corner.

“Ugh, turn that off!” I groaned at no one in particular.

Anders threw an arm around my shoulders and kissed my cheek. “It’s okay, Love—we’re going to be _okay_ …”

I rolled my eyes, but managed to turn my face until we were nose to nose. “I love you,” I whispered… "if this whole fucking country goes to shit, we might have to move.”

“What?” asked Isabela, perking up.

Anders laughed, “Alistair is planning our big exodus from Ferelden.”

“You can’t _leave_ Ferelden, Blondie,” drawled Varric. Interestingly, he hadn’t come up with a name for me yet. I knew it was only a matter of time, though—everyone had a nickname.

“Why not?” asked Anders, smirking.

“Because your other options are Orlais—where the national pastime is gossiping…” We all laughed. “Or Kirkwall—and you know what a shithole that place is…”

“I guess… what about the Anderfels?” I asked.

Anders made a face. “That’s where I’m _from_ —I’m not eager to go back there…”

Merrill perked up, “You never talk about that, Andy…”

Anders glared at her.

“Never mind,” she looked down into her drink and whispered something to Isabela.

“So… are you guys going to go on a honeymoon?” asked Fenris. It was the first time he’d spoken in hours, but he timed it perfectly to diffuse the mysterious tension that seemed to have fallen over us.

“I don’t know,” I looked at Anders and found myself smiling.

“I think we should go _somewhere_ ,” he said. “...maybe skiing?”

I nodded and kissed him. So far, skiing was the only active thing we’d found to do together since he hated gyms—even my _beautiful_ squash club.

“Are you guys going to be like this from now on?” asked Isabela irritatedly. “So much PDA…”

We laughed. “Yeah… every day from now on…” I joked.

It turned out to be true, though. From the minute we got married, we were a lot more _attached_. I loved it—I still do.

“Well, we can’t think about going anywhere until after Thanksgiving…” said Anders.

“Ooh, yeah,” Merrill curled her feet underneath her to seem taller. “Are you still hosting?”

We looked at each other. “Of course we are,” I said. “I expect all of you there next week—2pm _sharp_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name thing is a bit of a farce, but since we don't know Anders' actual name, it seemed appropriate. There will actually be more about his name in the future... stay tuned. :)


	26. Meeting Morrigan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair tells the story of the coat closet where Kieran was conceived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated M: implied sex, underage drinking, lots of swearing, as always.

* * *

 

Meeting Cullen was life changing. I'll always remember that day he harassed me after history class. But another day sticks out as the _most_ important day of my college career now—now that I'm looking back: the day I met Morrigan.

 

* * *

 

**17 years ago**

“Let’s open up to chapter 5, everyone,” said my professor.

He was a portly gentleman in his 60s, with kind eyes and a jolly disposition. He taught a smattering of upper level classes in the English department. I can't remember his name, now, but I remember his TA: _Morrigan_. She was striking even then, full of power that seemed to radiate out of her on the wings of wit and sarcasm. She had short dark hair that stuck out in all directions and hazel eyes that seemed to sparkle. She was _impossible_ not to notice.

I wasn't the only one. People specifically signed up for this small group 400-level class that term to get in the same room with her. Of the group of 15 enrolled, probably 10 of them approached her after class for one-on-one help.

 _I_ wasn’t one of them. I didn’t want to crowd her and I wasn’t sure what I’d need help with anyway. This class _wasn’t_ hard for me—it was actually my best subject: comparative historical literature. The book we were discussing currently was Passing by Nella Larsen. For anyone who hasn’t read it—it’s really quite amazing. It follows the lives of two women who ‘pass’ for white. It spoke to me because I was getting really sick of passing for straight. Despite my lack of experience, I had even considered coming out as gay because I felt _guilt_ about being bi, but I couldn’t identify with being _straight_ at all. There was a lot of prejudice at that time and people on both ends of the sexuality spectrum seemed to view those in the middle (like me) as shifty and dangerous.

“Now then,” said the professor, “I’d like to discuss the relationship between these two women… who can open that up for us?”

My hand shot up.

“Yes. Alistair,” he pointed to me. In a class this small, he used everyone’s first names.

“Thanks,” I cleared my throat and leaned toward the center of the circle of desks. “I know that they’ve been described as ‘sisters’ by a lot of critics, but I actually think they’re in love.”

The class groaned collectively—I was getting a reputation for thinking _everyone_ was in love. The professor waved them off. “Come on now, let’s hear this.”

“Well, I think it is unlikely that _‘just friends’_ would stay in contact this many years after physical separation,” I explained. “...and they’re both in loveless marriages—just based on status and keeping up appearances.”

A girl near me rolled her eyes and raised her hand. The professor nodded to her.

“I think that it’s very _telling_ that he can’t think about two women having a relationship without it being _sexual,”_ she scoffed.

That’s when Morrigan spoke—the first time I’d ever heard her voice. “I don’t think that’s what Alistair means—if you look at the language they use with, and about, each other in the text, I think a case could be made for what he’s proposing: based solely on the syntax.”

She nodded in my direction. I blushed.

“Alistair, would you like to point out any text references to back up your position?” she asked.

Once I got into the prose, it was easier to make my case. Other students jumped in. By the end of the class, we’d collectively agreed that there might be some sexual or romantic undertones in this historical piece. Incidentally, other great literary thinkers now agree with me.

After class, I gathered up my things and threw my backpack over one shoulder. On my way out the door, my professor pulled me aside.

“That was a great point today,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“I’d like to invite you to a department event—we’re having a salon up in Saladin Hall,” he explained. That was a beautiful old mansion on campus that once belonged to an alumnus-turned-author.  “It’s this Saturday at 8.”

“Okay,” I grinned. “Thank you, I’d love to go.”

“Fantastic,” he pulled a book off his desk and handed it to me. “This is what we’ll be discussing. See you then.”

I flipped the book over to its back on my way out. The Sirens of Titan by Kurt Vonnegut. I’d already read it—twice. It struck me as incredibly tragic and yet motivating. I read the blurb on the back as I walked, “The Sirens of Titan is an outrageous romp through space, time, and morality.”

“I bet you’ve read that before,” called a voice. I looked up. It was Morrigan. She was leaning against the doorframe. Her body looked like it _belonged_ there—as if the door was constructed around her.

“I have—twice,” I answered.

“Then I’m sure you’ll have some insight to add to the discussion.”

I wasn’t sure what that meant—it almost sounded like a _threat_.  “Hopefully…” I stood in front of her awkwardly. I needed to leave the room, but I was sort of afraid to try to get around her. “So… who usually goes to these events?” I asked, trying to fill the silence.

“Well, the professors for sure, most of the TAs, and some seniors in the department. You’re going to be the youngest one there,” she smiled.

I swallowed hard, “Really?”

She nodded nonchalantly, still not moving out of the door.

A lot of young men would have thought this whole thing dripped with sexual tension. And it sounds funny, since I consistently presented the idea that _everything_ could be reduced to romance, but I _did not_ think that was happening here. If anything, I felt like I was being tested.

“Well, I’d better read this a third time, then,” I laughed awkwardly.

She smirked—something like surprise crossed her face transiently—and she finally moved out of my way.

 

* * *

 

For the next three days, I did nothing but read. I read not only the entire novel (again) but also every shred of literary discourse I could find. By the time Saturday rolled around, I was _dreaming_ about space travel.

The night of the salon it rained—heavily. I crossed the quad under an oversized golf umbrella, but still managed to soak my shoes and bottoms of my pants. When I closed my umbrella on the stoop and tried to put myself back together, I noticed my shoes squeaked with each step. _Great_.

“Hi,” called a dark voice. I knew it was Morrigan before I turned to look. She wasn’t carrying an umbrella or even a rain jacket. She was _completely_ soaked, but managed to look like she’d just come off a runway. She did not seem human.

“Hey, are you okay?” I asked.

She scoffed like my head was full of rocks. “I’m not a witch—I won’t melt.”

I wasn’t totally convinced that was true—the witch part—how else would she manage this level of composure?

“Here, take my coat at least.” Her shirt had become rather see-through.

She smiled at me obligingly. “Shall we?” she asked, opening the door.

Inside, the salon was already well underway. The entire first floor of the mansion was full of academic types in tweed jackets and cashmere sweaters.

“Can I get you a drink?” she asked me.

I wasn’t old enough to drink. My first instinct was to say _no_ , but I thought she would judge me for it. I decided to go along with it and at least _hold_ the alcohol—just for appearances.

“Sure, whatever you’re having.” I tried to be nonchalant.

While she disappeared into another room, I wandered into the great room. There were lots of discussions happening. Most of them were about books I’d never heard of. My favorite thing about literature is its vastness—I could read books continuously for the rest of my life and never manage to read them all.

I found an inconspicuous seat on a wide windowsill and listened.

“Alistair, my boy,” said my professor. His cheeks were red from the warmth inside and—probably—lots of drinking.

“Hello, Professor,” I said.

He reached out and shook my hand. “I hope you’ll be able to add to our discussion tonight,” he smiled with something like pride.

“I certainly will,” I smiled. “I’ve been studying all week.”

He laughed—sort of like santa—and then excused himself to talk to a student from the history department who’d just arrived to drop something off.

I didn’t know it then, but that student was actually _Cullen_. He’d been sent by his department head to drop off some lesson plans for a joint history-literature department lecture. We _could_ have met that night. If we had, my whole life would have been different, I’m fairly sure.

In any case, that didn’t happen. Instead, I stayed in that window seat until Morrigan came and found me, a glass of red wine in either hand.

“Cheers,” she said gently clinking my glass.

I smiled over my cup. Remember my plan to only drink one glass ‘for appearances’? Yeah… That one glass turned into _four_ before the night was over. By the time we’d finished the discussion part of the evening—which I did very well in, by the way—I was bordering on _drunk_.

 

* * *

 

“You know, everyone in our class wants to ask you out,” I slurred.

Morrigan and I had decided to take a self-guided tour of the mansion. We were climbing a curved wooden staircase, trying not to fall into each other.

She finally sat on the landing at the top and looked down at me. “They want to do more than _that_ ,” she joked.

I laughed harder than I would have normally—I didn’t drink at all back then. “Yeah, I guess they do… Especially that one girl who you intellectually eviscerated the other day. I think it turned her on…”

We  both laughed as I managed to sit next to her without spilling my wine. It was a feat.

“How did you get to be a TA?” I asked.

“I killed the competition,” she deadpanned.

In my inebriated state, I stared at her wide-eyed until she laughed.

“No, having a campus position is a stipulation of my scholarship… so I applied for this one,” she answered.

I must have squinted or made some other incredulous facial expression because she burst out laughing. “Not a _glamorous_ enough answer for you, Alistair?”

“I just thought you’d be able to make up a better story—you _are_ a literature major…” I teased. In the process of this _stupidly_ flirty conversation, I had gotten progressively closer to her. At this point, we were sitting side by side without any space in between.

“Okay, let’s do it together…” she drained the rest of her wine glass and set it down next to her on the landing.

I laughed and followed suit.

“So I came to school with _one_ goal—to _take over_ the literature department…” she began.

I waited for her to say something else.

She elbowed me in the ribs. “Okay… your turn.”

“Oh… okay,” I laughed. “...but you didn’t know that you would be _thwarted_ at every turn by… Professor Santa!”

She snorted. “Maker… he _does_ look like Santa…”

“Come on, your turn…” I nudged her.

“What I didn’t know is that he was in league with…” she paused for dramatic effect, “...my _mother_! Duh, duh, duh!”

I cackled. “Who wanted you to marry a doctor and have five children… barefoot and pregnant forever!”

“Oh god…” She looked down at her wine glass disappointedly. “Who drank all my wine?”

We laughed again. “Mine’s gone too…”

“Ooh!” she stood up, wobbling slightly.

I followed and wrapped an arm around her waist, “Whoa, careful there…”

“One of these upstairs offices has a cache of the _good_ stuff,” she whispered. Her face was just a fraction of an inch from mine. I could smell the wine on her breath.

“Which one?” I asked, snickering stupidly.

“I don’t know,” she shrugged and laughed. “Let’s go find out!”

She grabbed my hand and pulled me into the first door on the left. “Keep a look out!” she whispered, rifling through the drawers.  “Damn it, some of these are locked!” she tugged on them uselessly.

“Shhh!” I cautioned, “You’re going to get us caught.”

The second I said those words aloud, my heart sank. I heard several sets of footsteps climbing the stairs and rounding the corner.

“Shit!” I mouthed. “Morrigan, someone’s coming!”

She looked horrified, but gestured toward a coat closet in the back corner of the room. “Come on!”

I frantically hit the lights and followed her inside—a choice I started to regret instantly. The inside of the closet smelled like potpourri and old moth balls in equal measure. It stung the back of my throat and made me feel like coughing, which was _absolutely_ not an option. I covered my mouth to keep from making a sound.

Morrigan turned to look up at me and glare. When we were face to face, it occurred to me that there was not enough space to back up. We were basically pressed flat against each other, arms hanging awkwardly at our sides to keep from making this whole thing much _more_ awkward.

We stared at each other in horror as the door to the office swung open and several people came inside.

“Oh my god,” I mouthed silently.

She bit her bottom lip.

I can’t imagine what the people in the office were doing, but it seemed to take _forever_. Meanwhile, I was starting to feel some other _things_ that I didn’t want Morrigan to find out about. I felt like some kind of weird predator. Ironically, I was the _least_ likely person to be having this reaction to her. I thought of her like a scholar—I _admired_ her. I specifically walked _away_ from conversations that went in the direction of, ‘Andraste’s ass, that Morrigan chick is _hot._ ”

In my desperate attempts to avoid her gaze, she picked up on my anxiety.

“What’s wrong?” she mouthed.

I shrugged. I hoped I wasn’t sweating.

That’s when everything got _weird_ —she winked at me and suddenly we were kissing. Her entire mouth tasted like wine and _heaven_. It was at that exact second that I realized I shouldn’t come out as gay because it was not even _close_ to true. I’d have to settle for dealing with my bi-ness… somehow.

I began to lose my balance in the tumultuousness of our embrace. I hit my head on the rod and bit the inside of lip to stop from swearing.

“ _Oh no_ ,” she silently soothed, cupping my cheek in her hand. She put a finger across her lips to shush me and leaned in.

From there on in, it’s all a blur. I know there was a lot of gripping and thrashing, and all the coats ended up on the floor, as did my _pants_. As soon as the people were done doing _whatever_ they were doing in the office, we got more aggressive about the whole thing. It wasn’t until the next day that I started to put all the pieces together.

 

* * *

 

I woke up in a heap of coats with a bad taste in my mouth. I swallowed hard and blinked into the deserted office. The rain from last night was still hanging around. I heard it pinging against the window panes.

“Morrigan?” I called tentatively. She wasn’t there. I was definitely alone. I was also definitely naked. “Oh shit…” I pawed through the pile of other people’s coats until I found my things. Putting on my pants proved exceedingly difficult—I almost fell into the desk. The more I moved around, the more my head ached. This was the first in a long line of mornings that would convince me I should either stop drinking all together or develop a tolerance. (I eventually settled on the latter.)

The downstairs of the mansion was deserted. I snuck through the entryway and found my umbrella, standing alone against the doorway.

 

That was the last time I saw her—mysteriously enough, Morrigan never TA-ed my class again. I learned later that she had been promoted within the English department and moved up to a 500-level class. I also learned that she graduated just two months later—and had my _baby_ that same year. It’s funny the way things work out. Morrigan was ultimately the person who helped me embrace my sexuality. Without her, I might still be pretending to be gay... or straight… I might be a different sort of person all together. I _might_ be someone’s father—but I wouldn’t have been Kieran’s… and he’s the best kid I know.

Thanks, Morrigan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come play with me on tumblr and twitter @ponticle.
> 
> \----------  
> The books I reference in this chapter are both fantastic reads. Highly recommend.


	27. Arrested - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair thinks about life's lessons at 3am, while Anders should be sleeping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated E - some actual sex, described in detail. Minor swearing. Lots of love, as always.

* * *

 

“We need a bigger bed,” complained Anders. He rolled away from me onto his left side and stretched out diagonally.

“What?” I asked. I tumbled into him and wrapped my arms around his back. “But then how could I do this?”

He growled into a pillow. “I have to be in court in four hours. This is ridiculous.”

I kissed the skin of his back and dragged my stubble down his spine. I couldn't help it—he was perfect.

“You're _horrible_ ,” he said. He was losing steam, though. I could tell. His muscles were straining under my touch.

“You love me,” I said. I moved until I could bite the shell of his ear. I let my entire weight rest against his back.

“Andraste's ass, Al…” He turned over in a fit. “I'm going to be _so_ tired in the morning.” He smiled at me dangerously.

I knew I had won.

Gently, I wrapped a hand around the edge of his hip and found his erection. I knew he’d have one because I _knew_ him. His level of protest was directly proportional to how turned on he’d be when I finally talked him into it.

He pushed me back onto the bed.

“Oh,” I smirked, “it’s _that_ kind of night; is it?” I raised an eyebrow daringly.

“You better believe it,” he laughed, “if you’re going to demand sex at two in the morning, we’re doing it my way…” He paused to kiss me gently. “Is that okay?”

I nodded. He was so sweet—I could have died.

“Okay then,” he bit his lip and settled back into character—demanding, powerful, intense.

I shivered. “And what _is_ your way tonight, Darling?” I asked.

“Give me that stuff in the night table and I’ll show you.”

I reached across and pulled out a box of condoms and some lubricant. I know what you’re thinking: ‘ _why were they still using condoms at this point_?’ It wasn’t for protection, obviously—that ship had sailed. It was because I loved the things he could do to me with his hands, but he also wanted to be able to card his fingers through my hair later without giving me pink eye.

He did _something_ with the tube of liquid that I couldn’t see in the relative dark of the bedroom. I figured it out a second later when he probed a latex-clad digit into me. I groaned. At the same time, he sucked the first couple inches of my cock into his mouth. These two procedures in concert elicited something guttural from my throat that I couldn’t reproduce now if you paid me.

“Have I mentioned that I love you?” I mumbled. I was mostly incoherent already.

“I’ve heard that,” he laughed, an errant tooth grazed me slightly, but I didn’t mind. He added another finger and pressed me open.

I squirmed. “I really like that _your_ favorite way of having sex requires virtually no work on my end.”

He laughed again, but no teeth got involved.  His fingers started to move with measured determination.

I tried my best to relax. It was always a little hard for me, but nothing about it even compared to how hard it was with Cullen.

When I think about the years I was with Cullen, it’s actually a little weird. I spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about him and anticipating our meetings, but when we _finally_ got together I was stressed and miserable the whole time. I _looked forward_ to turmoil. I expected a cosmic, emotional connection; I anticipated the best sex of my life, but found that I just couldn’t relax enough to actually enjoy it.

With Anders, I _could_ relax. It was having sex with him regularly that convinced me it wasn’t _my_ problem with Cullen. I always believed that I just needed to _try harder_ … but really, my intuition was telling me Cullen wasn’t safe—that he _didn’t_ love me. I just didn’t know how to listen to intuition back then.

“Maker,” I groaned. “I am going to come all over you if you’re not careful.”

He opened his mouth suddenly; I winced at the loss of suction. “Do you want me?” he whispered. He let his lips trail over the skin of my hip as he spoke.

I nodded.

Gently, he eased my knees up and replaced his fingers with the head of his cock. It breached me ever so slowly as he threw something into the waste basket near our bed—I assumed it was the condom, which was funny since he never really handled the wrappers well. I found at least five of them every time I vacuumed.

“Just breathe, Love,” he coached.

In my sex life with Anders, we’ve both learned a lot about ourselves through the years. At this point in our marriage—when it was fresh—we were finally starting to admit what each of us really liked. For example, Anders liked to do a _lot_ of things, but he did _not_ like to be penetrated, which is interesting, because our first time together ended up like that. It shows how much we’re willing to _tolerate_ for someone we love. But as we grew closer—as Anders and I became _more_ to each other—we could finally start to be more than accommodating: we could be _real._

While I was focusing on life’s intricate tapestry of emotional and intellectual lessons, he'd managed to slide all the way into me—at least as much as I could tolerate.

“I love you,” he whispered. He let his forehead drop onto mine and kissed me before he started to move. He was always gentle at first. But tonight, I could tell it was taking all his willpower to do it—he wanted to _fuck_ me.

“Don't hold back,” I managed. I bit his bottom lip to drive the point home.

He held himself up on his arms and _moved_. It almost made me feel like crying—it was raw and painful and intimate and beautiful. All the emotions I'd ever been able to feel seemed to be wrapped up in a tight coil of pre-orgasmic tension.

I wrapped my hands around the back of his neck and interlaced the fingers. His skin was slick and his breathing ragged. Something was _wrong_ , though; I could sense it.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

He looked nervous. “...it's probably almost 3…”

I turned my head to look at the clock on the bedside table. He wasn't wrong. I assumed his problem was that he felt guilty about getting off and going _the fuck_ to sleep—but I totally understood. If _I_ had to be somewhere in a matter of hours, we wouldn’t even be doing this. It’s a terrible double standard… I’m allowed… I’m _human_.

“Just come. I want you to,” I said.

“Not without _you_ ,” he raised an eyebrow.

I laughed and trailed my right hand down my abdomen to my dick between us. When I was pumping it in earnest, his brow relaxed.

I came a minute later with him mere seconds behind. We kissed and rolled and finally made it to the bathroom before we reunited in bed, clean and exhausted.

“I love you,” I kissed him.

“Love you,” he mumbled.

I turned away from him to try to go to sleep, but a few minutes later I could still hear him thinking. _‘Thinking’_ for Anders sounded like grinding his teeth and rearranging his pillows in discrete ways.

I turned back over to look at him. “What's going on?”

“Oh…” he turned onto his side to face me. “I didn't mean to keep you up.”

“You didn't,” I smirked. “It’s definitely _my_ fault we’re both awake…”

“I'm just thinking about Kieran…” he admitted.

“Right _now_?” I laughed and wedged my thigh between his legs. “That seems inappropriate.”

“Oh maker, _Alistair_ , you're terrible,” he swatted my shoulder playfully. “I was thinking about how weird it is that we have a son now…”

“ _We_?” I asked. I didn't mean it as a correction, I just wasn't sure I heard him right, but he seemed to think it was an insult.

“Okay, whatever, Al…” he started to turn away from me.

“I didn't mean it like _that_ ,” I grabbed his shoulder and turned him back. “I just wasn't sure I heard you. I've never heard you say _we_ like that before.”

“Well…” Anders curled into my chest, burying his face. “I feel like I'm a part of this as much as you are…”

“I feel like that too,” I rubbed his back and kissed the top of his head. “I love you.”

“I just… never expected to be here…” said Anders. “When I first started to realize that I might like boys… I never thought I would be able to get married,” he paused, “...or have a _family_ …”

 

* * *

 

Anders is amazing at saying the right thing at the right time. It's one of the things that makes him such a good lawyer. On this _particular_ day, at this _particular_ moment, I needed to him to say that exact thing—I just didn't know it yet.

When I checked the clock mid-fuck, it was 2:48am. When he told me that _we_ were Kieran's parents, it was 3:18am. When I looked at the clock again to understand who on earth would be calling at this hour it was 3:31am. _That_ was the minute we discovered Kieran had been **_arrested_**.

* * *

 

Remember when I mentioned that Kieran wasn’t driving his car the week before we got married? Yeah… I need to explain that or nothing else is going to make sense from here on in.

About two weeks after we got back from our vacation in Rivain, I presented Kieran with a belated 17th birthday present. It would have been on time, but I had it custom made.

“Holy shit,” breathed Kieran. It wasn’t like him to swear, but I thought it was cute.

“You like it?” I asked.

“Maker, yes!” he looked back at me in shock as he ran his hand along the hood.

The color was called _Fjord Blue_. Although the whole car was brand new, it was meant to look old—it was a reproduction of a classic, right down to the hardware, with one major improvement.

“It’s electric, you know,” I explained.

“Really?” he asked.

“Yeah… I’m going to have a charging station installed at your mom’s so you can charge it,” I walked up next to him and put a palm on the hood.

“This is amazing, Alistair,” he gaped.

“Well, let’s take it for a spin,” I offered, throwing him the keys.

We spent the next thirty minutes testing its ability to accelerate—at speeds that were not exactly safe. If Anders had been in the car, he would have been nervous, but I felt like I was _invincible_ in those days. It was stupid—I’m not defending it. What I didn’t know about kids back then is that they pick up on attitudes. _My_ attitude in the car that day was that I couldn’t be hurt—that life was short and we should push the limits. Kieran took that to heart, apparently.

The very first time he took it out, he got a speeding ticket. Morrigan imposed stricter rules about his driving habits—he had to be home at a certain time; he needed to check in with her before going out, etc.

She called me to go over the details one afternoon. It was the first time I’d heard her voice in almost two decades. Even when we were planning our big trip to Rivain, she’d done all her communicating _through_ Kieran.

“Alistair?” her voice was low and melodic. I knew it was her instantly. “This is Morrigan.”

“Hi,” I managed. “How are you?”

She made a throaty sound that I imagined accompanied an eye roll. “Fine… except you’ve given my son a _deathtrap_.”

“Excuse me?”

“The _car_ , Alistair—he’s managed to get a _three hundred_ dollar speeding ticket in his first week of owning it,” she huffed. “Honestly, who gives a 17-year-old a sports car?”

“Oh…” I rubbed my forehead with my palm. I wasn’t sure what else to say. “I’m sorry?”

She laughed, “Don’t be sorry—be a _parent_.”

I wasn’t sure what that _meant_.

Morrigan spent the next few minutes explaining the details of when Kieran was allowed out and when he wasn’t. I took notes on a pad on my desk—there were a lot of _variables_.

“Morrigan?” I paused, “thank you for contacting me. It’s really good to hear your voice.”

She made a noncommittal sound, “You’re welcome. Call me if you need any help… okay?”

“Okay,” I hung up.

I did a really good job following the car rules when Kieran stayed with me over the next several weeks. So all the way through the wedding, I didn’t even _think_ of it. That’s why it was so shocking when that police officer called us at three-thirty in the morning.

 

* * *

 

“Mr. Theirin?” asked a stern voice.

I tried to calm my breathing. Anders looked over at me with confusion.

“Yes?” In the back of my mind, I realized he could have been looking for Anders too—we had the same last name now. The butterflies in my stomach _immediately_ vanished when the cop continued talking, though.

“Your son Kieran is down here at the precinct—”

“I’ll be right there,” I interrupted. “Anders, we have to _go_ …”

 

 


	28. Arrested - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair and Anders race to the police station after receiving the call about Kieran's arrest. Alistair has a chance to reconnect with Morrigan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated T: nothing racy, but it's scary to have your son be arrested.

* * *

 

I can't remember the trip to the police station. I only know that Anders drove. This was unusual because he didn't really _like_ to drive. I normally drove us everywhere or we took the train. I couldn't have even operated a _bicycle_ , though, let alone a car.

Inside the station, I tried to follow the directions of an intake receptionist, but I had a hard time navigating the hallways. My vision seemed to be blurring. I kept pushing up my glasses to _will_ them to work better.

“I'm looking for my son,” I said to the guardian of the ward, “his name is Kieran.”

She waved me toward his room, “your wife is inside already.”

I winced, but I didn't have the wherewithal to correct her.

The room was small and poorly lit. Its walls were blank except for a huge mirror, which I knew was actually a window from the other side. I’d watched enough _Law and Order_ to know that that wasn’t a good sign. Morrigan looked up at me when I came in.

“Hi,” she said firmly. She was sitting on the same side of the table as Kieran, which forced me to sit opposite them.

“Kieran, what happened?” I asked.

He looked up at me and then over to the two-way mirror. I understood his meaning—something bad had happened and he was afraid to say.

“Have you called a lawyer?” I asked, looking between him and Morrigan.

“That’s why we called _you_ —is Anders here?” he asked.

 _Of course_ —they needed the _other_ Mr. Theirin. Why would _I_ be needed in this kind of crisis? If anything, I was probably its progenitor.

“Let me get him,” I rose and knocked on the metal door.

 

* * *

 

After the changing of the guard, Morrigan and I were relegated to sitting in the waiting area. That’s when we saw Lilly. She was exiting another interrogation room with her parents and a woman I didn’t recognize—she looked like an attorney.

When she saw me, she looked like she was going to burst into tears.

I crossed the room in several quick steps and put my hand on her mother’s shoulder. I’d not met her father before, but he looked at me with suspicion.

“Alistair,” Lilly’s mother didn’t look any happier to see me than her father had. “I think it’s best if we don’t speak…”

I squinted at Erin—that’s Lilly’s mother’s name—with equal parts surprise and suspicion.

“Our attorney has advised us not to have any contact with your son— _or you_ ,” Erin scoffed. She put a hand around Lilly’s shoulders and glared at me before they left.

“What the hell was that about?” asked Morrigan. She was suddenly right over my shoulder.

“I have no idea…” I bit my lip and turned to look at Morrigan. She was wearing the same horrified expression I felt on my own face. “But I have a really bad feeling about this…”

 

Morrigan and I were left sitting together in almost complete silence. The waiting room was basically empty now.

“So... you hate my novel?” I asked suddenly. It was a terrible non sequitur, but I needed to diffuse the tension between us and I didn’t know how else to do it. The only thing we had in common—besides Kieran—was literature.

“ _Hate_ is a strong word, Al,” she laughed. “It’s just a bit _maudlin_ , that’s all.”

“Well, it’s my _first_ novel—I’m sure my next one will be... _grittier_ …” I mumbled.

“I mean, you made the antagonist come around and see the ‘error of his ways’—which was _fine_ ,” she explained, still not looking at me, “but the protagonist _forgave_ him and they lived happily ever after?” She laughed haughtily. “It’s _trite_ …”

It was funny—her objections were exactly the objections of my actual life. Of _course_ I couldn’t forgive Cullen _and_ run off with him—especially not when I’d met someone who treated me so well: who treated me like _Anders_ did.

“I guess it _is_ sort of a farce…” I muttered to myself.

“Don’t worry,” she said easily, “the stupid people who buy books _love_ it—you’ll be printing third and fourth editions.” She dropped her hand on my knee and winked, “Trust me.”

It’s worth mentioning that at that _very moment_ several movie producers were pouring over my book and preparing to write me an offer to make it into a film—we’ll come back to that later.

 

“Hey,” Anders said suddenly. He pulled a chair up in front of us and leaned in. “Kieran’s okay—I’m trying to get him released, but it’s tough because he won’t name the person who gave him the drugs.”

“What drugs?” I asked.

“Short version,” whispered Anders, “Lilly and Kieran were at a party at someone’s house buying prescriptions. They got pulled over and the cops arrested them.”

“You should never have given him _that car_ ,” growled Morrigan.

“I hardly thought he was going to use it for trafficking drugs!” I grit my teeth painfully.

Anders raised his palms between us. “This isn’t the time. I need to call a friend of mine who does criminal law—she’s really good. We’re going to need her.”

“I need to call Paul,” said Morrigan. I remembered that she was married to some guy Kieran thought was an asshole. Yeah, that seemed like _just_ the thing to do. I almost laughed.

When we were alone, I put a hand on Anders’ shoulder and squeezed. I remembered that he needed to be in court extremely soon. 6am was just over an hour away.

“Sweetie, you’re going to be late for court,” I said.

He squinted at me. “I already called my firm—they’re getting a continuance.”

“Really?”

“ _Our son_ is in trouble,” he said incredulously.

I never loved him more.

 

* * *

 

There was a short time when I imagined having children with Cullen. It was fleeting, but it was _there_. I remember it vividly. I pictured them with _our_ attributes—as if we could make a genetic mixture. They were a boy and a girl—maybe six and eight at the time I imagined them. They had curly blonde-ish-brown hair like Cullen and _my_ big brown eyes. They were filled with a sense of wonder that came from me and they had Cullen’s smirk—and my vocabulary. And we _loved_ them. I had a very highly developed fantasy about Cullen reading to our daughter in tall grass—some kind of field that doesn’t actually exist. The sun streamed down at them in finite beams of warmth. She asked intelligent questions and he taught her about history and literature in a swirling haze of happiness.

I think that’s what made it hurt so much when I discovered Icis was pregnant. Because it was _possible_ for her to have his kids. She could do something I couldn’t even hope for. And yet, here I was—just a couple of years later with a _family_. A husband and a fully formed son.

But that son was in trouble—and I didn’t know how to help. Thank the maker for Anders.

 

* * *

 

**12 Hours Later**

“Hey,” Anders leaned over us in the waiting area. I’d inadvertently fallen asleep. “I’m just finalizing his release paperwork and I’m setting up a meeting his new attorney for later this afternoon...”

We had been allowed limited visits with Kieran starting about ten hours ago, but we were all punchy and exhausted at this point. Morrigan and I still hadn’t left the station at all. We sat side by side like guards, sleeping in revolving fifteen-minute stints.

Morrigan nodded and smiled sleepily, “Thanks, Anders.”

He quickly leaned over and kissed me before disappearing back down the hallway. He looked exhausted; he had been awake this _entire_ time. I didn’t know how he’d managed it.

“He is _wonderful_ ,” said Morrigan.

“You know, people often tell me that,” I said. “Everyone loves him… I mean… _I_ do too—just to be clear.”

She laughed, “How did you two meet?”

I smiled, “He was suing me—right after the asshole from my book ruined my life,” I paused. “Who, by the way, did it in a _much_ worse way than the guy in the book—it was so brutal I could never put it in a novel… no one would believe it.”

She laughed again.

“Anyway… we ended up in a bar, then on a variety of dates, and suddenly we were living together,” I explained. “He’s the best thing to ever happen to me… well… _except…_ ” I looked down at my palms… “Kieran.”

She nodded understandingly.

           

A second later, Kieran appeared from around the corner with Anders two steps behind.

Morrigan and I stood.

“...do you understand these rights as they’ve been explained to you?” an officer was asking.

Kieran looked at Anders for encouragement and then nodded.

“...you are required to appear within 48 hours for additional questioning. Until then you’ll be released into the care of your parents,” she nodded at Morrigan and me and then left.

Kieran hugged Morrigan almost immediately and then turned to me. “ _Dad_?” he managed.

That was the first time he’d _ever_ called me that. He’d introduced me as his father on several occasions, but he _always_ called me ‘Alistair’ when he addressed me. Tears formed instantly in my eyes, blinding me.

“Hi Kieran,” I whispered. I grabbed him and hugged him too tightly.

He looked over my shoulder when I let him go. “Where’s Lilly?”

I grimaced, “She left with her parents hours ago… we’re going to need to talk about her.”

“Is she okay?” he croaked.

Morrigan and I exchanged a look.

“Why wouldn’t she be okay?” asked Morrigan.

“She was _out of her mind_ ,” he looked at us like we were insane. “I pulled the car over because she tried to crash it.”

“What?” I pulled him by the sweatshirt until we were outside. “Don’t say another word until we get home.”

* * *

 

The car ride was silent. I didn’t even turn on any music. My thoughts were a cacophony of screams and potential conversations.

Back at the apartment, Morrigan pulled her mouth into a tight line. Although she was a head shorter than the three of us, she was _easily_ the most fearsome. “Kieran, you need to explain what happened— _right now_.”

“I don’t want to get her in trouble,” he said, leaning against the island counter. “She needs _help_ —not punishment.”

That made me feel even worse. I sat on one of our bar stools and rested my chin on my fist. I was trying not to shake.

“Lilly has been using her mom’s meds for a while…” he began. “At first, she just used them once in a while—if she was feeling especially stressed…” He ran a hand over his face. “...but lately, she has been needing them more… so she couldn’t keep taking them from her mom’s bottle—”

“So she started _buying_ them?” I interrupted.

He nodded miserably.

“That’s why we went to the party… I don’t even _like_ those kids… but she said she _needed_ the pills or she would…” he paused. “...she wasn’t sure what she’d do—she was threatening to kill herself.”

“Oh my…” I breathed.

“...so I snuck out, took the car, and brought her down there. I _brokered_ the transaction,” he rolled his eyes at the absurdity. “...but when we got back into the car and she took some, I think something was wrong—they weren’t what she was expecting or she didn’t get the dosage right, because she started to seem _sick_.”

His face had turned pale. I wanted to hug him, but I felt paralyzed on my own side of the island.

“Her breathing got shallow and she was sweating. I told her she needed to get to a hospital. I started driving her there—that’s when she _snapped_. She started saying that I was trying to get her arrested because I was too afraid to break up with her. That I’d been _planning_ this as a way to get rid of her because I wanted to date other people… or something _insane_ like that. She was incredibly paranoid—completely losing her mind.”

As Kieran told the story, I felt his stress and anxiety like it was my own.

“...and that’s when she did it—she grabbed the wheel and tried to drive us off the road. Luckily, I was able to get us stopped without crashing. I grabbed the remaining pills and the key fob and ran far enough away that she couldn’t start the car again… but that’s when the cops came by.”

We sighed collectively.

He leaned across the counter to look into my eyes. “She needs _help_ , Dad…”

There it was—that _title_ again.

“So do _you_ ,” I said miserably.

Anders wrapped a hand around my waist and Morrigan rested her head on Kieran’s shoulder. I didn’t know _how_ , but I _knew_ we were going to find a way through this.

* * *

 


	29. Arrested - Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Kieran out of immediate danger, Alistair tries to help him deal with lingering guilt. Anders shares some disturbing memories from his past.
> 
> \----------
> 
> Trigger warning: Anders talks about his history as a domestic violence survivor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated M: domestic violence, substance abuse, lots of legal stuff that could be stressful for some readers.
> 
> ...and language... I swear so much it's scary.

* * *

 

I spent the next several hours pacing back and forth through our living room, talking to lawyers, and trying to handle things at the paper remotely.

I caught Anders in the hallway at midday and pulled him into our bedroom. “How are we going to get out of this?”

Anders looked at me tensely. “I’m not exactly sure, Al…” he threaded our fingers together and squeezed. “...but his new lawyer has certainly fought cases like this before—she’s a really great attorney.”

“Who is it?” I asked.

“It’s um… it’s Bethany…” he looked embarrassed. I couldn't figure out why. “...Garrett's little sister…?”

“ _Oh_ ,” I managed. I remembered now that the Hawke family was filled with brilliant legal minds going back generations. They’d been well-represented at Garrett’s funeral.

It felt strange to be confronted with Anders’ abusive ex again. His memory still haunted Anders when I least expected it—a nightmare that left him gasping, a scene in a movie that triggered sweating and shaking. I wasn’t eager to go back there.

“I’m sorry… It’s just—she’s the _best_ ,” he said.

I wrapped my arms around him and rested my chin on his shoulder. “Don’t be sorry… _Thank you_ … for calling her—I’m sure that wasn’t easy.”

He pulled back a little and nodded, wiping a telltale tear from his eye. “Yeah well… I’d do _anything_ for Kieran—you know that.”

I nodded.

“She’ll be here tomorrow. I need to make a call.” Anders kissed my cheek gently and disappeared around the corner with his phone.

 

* * *

 

Back out in the living room, Kieran and Morrigan were sitting together on the sofa. CNN was on in the background. It was still so close to the election—there was some shit about our ‘President Elect’ splashed across the screen. I growled. “He’s not _my_ president…”

“ _Dad_ ,” Kieran smirked at me.

I turned around slowly. This was the _third_ time he’d called me that. I was still counting—I still sort of do.

“We were just discussing what Kieran is going to say to Lilly when he sees her…” said Morrigan gently.

I sat on Kieran’s other side and turned in so we were in a tight circle. I couldn’t help but feel like a nuclear family.

“I’m not sure you should be _talking_ to her at all,” I said seriously. “She could have _killed_ you in the car.”

Morrigan cut in before Kieran could say anything. He looked offended. “She’s obviously not _well_ , Alistair… but if she gets the help she needs in the coming weeks, it might give Kieran some closure to talk about this with her…”

She was trying to smooth this over. _I_ was being a hothead.

“I just feel so…” Kieran looked down at his palms. “... _guilty_.”

“You are _not_ responsible—even a little,” I said seriously.

“But _I_ took her there— _I_ was the one who got her the drugs…” he argued.

“Those were both mistakes,” I said gently. “But you’re still young—you’re _learning_. And you’re both going to _survive_ this. You might not believe this, but I’ve been through some shit I thought was _literally_ going to kill me…” I looked down the hallway where I could hear Anders faintly. “...but here I am…”

“Thanks, Dad.”

That was number _four_.

 

* * *

 

The next few days passed a blind haze of overwhelmingly stressful tasks. Most notably, Kieran had endless interviews and meetings with his new attorney. I hadn’t talked to Bethany much—I wasn't sure how to act when she was around. I had to admit, though, she’d done an excellent job. By the third day, she had all charges against Kieran dropped. He was released with only a fine in exchange for his testimony against the kid who sold them the drugs.

Unfortunately, Lilly wasn’t as lucky. When the whole story came out and drug tests were performed, she was charged with several drug-related offenses _and_ attempted manslaughter. Bethany was in contact with Lilly’s attorney throughout the whole thing, so she was the one to explain it to us.

“The district attorney is on a witch hunt,” she said. “He’s trying to prove that even upper-middle class white girls will be dealt with to the fullest extent of the law…”

“—which is ridiculous, because she’d be locked _in a cell_ awaiting trial if she were a person of color,” I mumbled. I felt compelled to point out every type of racial injustice I could see at that point in my life.

Bethany shrugged at me, “Anyway… he’s pushing this through just to make a point—it’s a really bad turn of luck… but she has good representation.”

Kieran bit his lip. “What could happen to her?”

Bethany raised an eyebrow. “Theoretically, she could be sentenced to a juvenile detention center until she’s 21… mandated therapy, locked ward, the whole thing…”

Kieran’s lip quivered.

“But that’s _not_ going to happen—more likely she’ll enter a treatment facility for six months or a year and come out _better_.” When she mentioned treatment, she looked at Anders pointedly. I wondered what that _meant_ , but ignored it.

Kieran nodded and thanked her for the information, but he looked _miserable_. He spent the next few days practicing his violin until his fingers were bleeding.

 

* * *

 

“Andraste’s ass…” I heard him yell from his room one day.

“Hey, are you okay?” I called through the door.

He opened the door and threw his hands up in the air. “I’m terrible at this…” he shouted.

I rolled my eyes, “that is _absolutely_ not true.”

“I can barely play pieces used to be my warm-ups,” he flopped back onto his bed bitterly.

“I think you’re just stressed, Kieran…” I sat next to him and patted his knee. “You’ve been practicing like crazy—maybe you need to give yourself a break.”

He groaned. “This is ridiculous… I just wish I could talk to her…”

I knew he meant Lilly. “Come on… you know Bethany said that wasn’t in anyone’s best interest…”

He sat up and scoffed. “I didn’t think _you’d_ care what she says—I can tell you don’t like her.”

I felt my eyebrows rise. “What makes you say that? I think she’s doing a great job with your case…”

“Every time she talks to Anders you get all tense,” he scoffed. “A vein on the side of your neck pulses visibly.”

I didn’t realize I was being so transparent.

“So either you think Anders is cheating on you, which I _doubt_ ,” he teased, “or there’s some weird history there…”

“Is there _ever…_ ” I mumbled. I wasn’t sure _this_ was the time… but I would eventually have told him anyway, and if it kept his mind off the Lilly situation, maybe this was as good a time as any.

“Before Anders and I got together, he had this boyfriend, Garrett. Bethany is his little sister… so it’s hard for me to see her and not think about Garrett,” I began. “He was this incredibly charismatic, brilliant, powerful person, apparently.”

What I didn’t say aloud is that thinking about Garrett _automatically_ made me think about Cullen too—in some way, I blamed Garrett for _murdering_ Cullen. I often thought of Garrett as a harbinger of death that Anders _barely survived_.

“He was a lawyer too,” I continued, “he got Anders involved in humanitarian causes after law school.”

Kieran nodded.

“...and they were really serious—Anders was _in love_ with him.” I’d never said that exact thing aloud before since _I’d_ never been the one telling the story. The words felt sharp in my mouth. “...but Garrett also had a darker side…”

Kieran raised an eyebrow warily.

“...he was _abusive_ —” interrupted Anders. He’d walked around the corner silently.

It occurred to me suddenly that maybe this story wasn’t _mine_ to tell, but he waved me off and managed to smile. “It’s okay…”

He sat on Kieran’s other side. “I didn’t know it at first; it started in small ways. He’d say something bad about one of my friends—a reason that I shouldn’t see them anymore.”

I hadn’t heard this part—the _beginning_.

“...and so my friend sphere got smaller… I started to think that he must be the smartest, most insightful person in the world because _he_ was the only one who saw the flaws in everyone else… in _me_ , too.”

He cleared his throat, “Soon, I didn’t have anyone left, but him. I knew intrinsically that it wasn’t _right_ , but whenever I’d pull away he’d threaten to hurt himself. I was afraid for him—I still _loved_ him—so I stayed.”

I sipped air tensely.

“...and then eventually, he started to threaten _me_ ,” Anders looked down at the floor. “At first it was about how much he _loved_ me—he couldn’t stand the idea of me being with anyone else. He’d accuse me of cheating at the most ridiculous times. I’d come home at 3am after working on a case all night and he’d insist I was screwing our boss.” Anders’ voice started to shake. “And then he got more derogatory: he’d tell me that he was the only one who’d ever put up ‘with my bullshit.’ That I’d be alone forever if it wasn’t for him. That I only graduated law school because he _helped_ me.”

While he paused, I got up and moved to sit on his other side. I wrapped an arm around him and leaned against his shoulder.

“...and then it _escalated_. But he was _smart_ —so he knew how to talk his way out of anything. He’d slap me and then _I’d_ end up comforting _him_.”

Kieran’s complexion looked ashen.

“...finally, we got to the point where I was afraid he was going to kill me—he wrecked my car… that’s why this side of my face is a little different…” he rubbed the right side of his jaw.

“Eventually, somehow, I found the strength to leave…” He looked at me and smiled. “And then I met your father and we fell in love and the rest is history…

“But the reason I told you all of this is that it started in _small ways_ —in ways that took away my autonomy by making me feel _guilty_. And then with the car thing… it’s too similar… I felt like I needed to _say_ something.”

Kieran looked like he might cry.

“...not that Lilly is inherently _bad_ —neither was Garrett—she’s sick. But Kieran, just because someone’s ill, it doesn’t make their welfare _your_ responsibility—even if you love them.”

Kieran nodded to Anders and eventually spoke. “Thanks for telling me that… and I’m so sorry that happened to you…”

“It’s okay—it made me who I am… someone _better_. And this is going to help _you_ become someone better too, Kieran.” He patted my thigh and stood suddenly. “I’m going to order us some dinner—any requests?”

Kieran shrugged.

“I’ll help you,” I offered.

Out in the kitchen, I pulled Anders against me and hugged him, gently rocking side to side.

“I never knew all that,” I whispered.

“Yeah… I don’t usually like to talk about it,” he admitted. His hand rubbed up and down my back in slow circles. “...but if a horrible story like that can help someone else… it’s worth it.”

“Someday, I’d really like to hear the rest of it,” I said. If that was the version he’d tell a _teenager_ , I was sure the truth of it was fifty times more horrible.

He looked at me through a wayward piece of hair, “really?”

I nodded. “I want to know _all_ of you.”

He didn’t smile, but he nodded. “I love you, Al.”

“I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This arc is largely over... the next chapter has to do with the trial and more about Anders' past. Anders and Alistair in the public eye while The Proposal is adapted for film is the topic of the next several chapters. Thank you for all your continued support! :) 
> 
> \---------
> 
> If you like this story, come visit me on tumblr and twitter @ponticle.


	30. History - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair helps Kieran through a tough transition and finds out about Anders' past in more detail than he ever has before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated M: homophobic themes and language, implied conversion therapy, emotionally abusive parenting. Take care of yourselves.

“This script is horrible,” I said one night. I dropped my head into my hands in front of the computer and sighed.

“What?” cackled Anders from the bed. He was ready to go to sleep, but I’d been reading the film-adaptation re-writes from the writing team next to him and I kept waking him up.

“Morrigan was right,” I jabbed a knuckle into my left eye, “this book is garbage. The only people who like it are idiots. How could I possibly expect the script to be any better?”

“What is making you say that?” Anders sat up against the headboard.

“You’ve read it—it makes no sense…” I complained. “Isn’t it obvious from the first ‘hello’ that the Cullen-character isn’t into the Alistair-character?”

“I don’t know if I’d say _that…_ ” mused Anders. “I think he’s just hiding it.”

“Yeah, well that's what I thought… and look where it got me…” I mumbled.

“Love,” Anders crawled toward me across the bed. “What is this _really_ about?”

He knew me so well. I could never hide from him.

“Lily’s trial starts tomorrow,” he said. “This couldn't _possibly_ be a diversion tactic, could it?”

I shrugged.

“Come here,” he reached for me and eventually pulled me across his lap. “It's going to be a struggle for a while. Kieran is going to feel conflicted and horrible… but we're going to make it work.”

“You're right, of course,” I nuzzled into Anders’ neck and sighed. “I just don't know what to _do_ …” I mouthed his bare shoulder. “What if she goes to jail? Or what if she doesn’t, but she blames him anyway?”

“He will be sad,” said Anders. “But sadness isn’t fatal— _you_ know that.”

I nodded. He was right again.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, on the way to the courthouse, I let Kieran hook up his phone in the car. He played cello concertos—Lily’s instrument, instead of his. It broke my heart. I had to stay silent to keep from sobbing. I was trying to _avoid_ making this all about me, but I didn’t know _how_ —I’ve always been sensitive.

“What do you think is going to happen, Dad?” he asked.

“I don’t know, Kieran,” I sighed. “But I think she’s going to be okay no matter what. And so are _you_.”

He sighed and looked out the window.

We both had suits on. Neither of us felt particularly comfortable in them; I could tell. When we met Anders outside the courthouse, he looked at me disparagingly.

“Love,” he reached across to fuss with my collar, “did you never learn to dress yourself?” He laughed, but it felt sort of forced.

“Are you doing okay, Kieran?” asked Anders.

“I think so…” he answered.

We settled into our seats in the gallery of the courtroom almost silently. A fair amount of shuffling and gavel banging ensued. I steadied myself by putting one arm around Kieran and the other around Anders. I needed both of the men in my life as close to me as possible.

We waited as a variety of petty crimes were tried, but by 11:30am, we knew something was wrong. She should have been here by now. I leaned into Anders’ ear, “Sweetie… what's going on?”

He shrugged, “I'm going to call Beth.” (She was in close contact with Lilly’s attorney, since we weren’t allowed to talk to Lilly directly.)

Anders excused himself from our row, leaving Kieran and I to wonder until the next break when he'd be allowed back in or we could join him outside.

The next case being heard was a rather gruesome assault case, involving drunken baseball fans. The crime scene photos turned my stomach. Kieran looked like he was having a similar experience.

In the next break, Anders snuck back into our row and whispered in my ear.

“Lilly’s not going to be appearing—she’s going to check into a treatment facility _today_.”

I grabbed Kieran by the elbow and nudged Anders until we were again outside on those steps.

“What’s going on, Dad?” asked Kieran.

“Lilly is going into treatment today,” I said gently.

Anders stepped up next to me and gripped my arm. “Kieran, she’s _okay_ —this is actually the best way this could have played out. She’s going to get _help_ now.”

Kieran interrupted, “—did she try to do something?”

I didn’t know what he meant, but Anders nodded. “She made a suicide attempt…”

My mouth dropped open slightly.  I considered calling Morrigan—I needed an adult.

“I had a feeling she might do something like that…” said Kieran sadly. “I just wish I’d said something earlier…”

“It’s going to be okay,” I hugged him. It didn’t matter that he was almost as big as I was—right now he was a sad little boy: _my_ sad little boy.

 

* * *

 

Morrigan met us at our place half hour later. She had managed to get Lilly’s parents to agree to a goodbye meeting. They were reticent, but Kieran wanted to say _something_. I was so relieved to see her I _hugged_ her.

“Thanks, Dad,” said Kieran. He waved to me from the passenger seat of Morrigan’s car. It would be _ages_ before she trusted him to drive again.

There was so much to process. Back in our living room, I collapsed onto the couch.

“I can’t _believe_ he’s having to deal with this…” I muttered. “When _I_ was 17 the scariest decision I had to make was which college to attend. I was _sure_ the outcome would make or ruin my life…” I laughed humorlessly.

“I was leaving home at that age… trying to get away from my parents…” Anders offered.

I squinted at him. “What do you mean?”

“I ran away from home when I was 17…” He said it like it was normal… like it meant nothing.

I grabbed his hands and squeezed them on his lap. “You ran away from _home_?” I repeated.

He nodded.

“ _Why_?” I asked.

“Because my parents didn’t want a _‘faggot’_ living in their house.” Even though he was quoting, hearing that word felt like I’d been stabbed. It was vile.

“Oh my god, Anders…” I looked at him wide-eyed. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this before?”

“You’ve never really asked,” he mumbled.

He was right—I hadn’t. I _knew_ that something wasn’t right with his family situation, but he’d never told me anything about it. I think I’d actually been afraid to ask—afraid of something like _this_.

“Well, I wish you would tell me…”

He smiled in a way I had rarely seen—a smile of being known, of sharing himself with me in the most intimate of ways. It was one thing to share a bed with him, another to share a life, but the pinnacle of sharing with Anders, was sharing his _darkness_.

“It all started when I was 15,” began Anders. “I got my first crush on a boy… well, the first one I _acknowledged_ , anyway.”

We smirked at each other. I knew the feeling.

“...and he liked me too…”

I felt a little pang of jealousy. It was _stupid_ , but I didn’t like thinking about Anders with anyone but me, even if it _was_ 20 years ago.

“So we started dating. At first, my parents were cool with me having a ‘ _friend_ ’ over all the time. They let us have sleepovers because they had no idea. My sister was a baby at the time so they had their hands full, anyway. They liked knowing that I was occupied.”

I dropped my head onto his shoulder and listened. I knew where this was going.

“But one night we got a little carried away…”

“What does that mean?” I asked, smirking.

“Well,” he laughed, “suffice it to say that when my dad walked in, my "friend" was on his knees…”

I made a face.

“So my parents freaked out—sent me away to boarding school the next week.”

“—the next _week_!?” I interrupted.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “It was all very fast. Before I knew it, I was studying religion along with a bunch of other boys whose parents were terrified of them.”

“Oh…” I bit my lip and curled deeper against him.

“Of course, the whole thing backfired. Why would you send a boy who thinks he might be _gay_ to an all-boys school? It’s like sending a pyromaniac to wilderness survival camp.”

We both laughed.

“So you kept having sex with boys, I take it…” I kissed his cheek.

“Well… _clearly…_ ” he looked at me incredulously.

“I’m very happy about that, you know…” I mumbled into his shirt.

“Well, my parents were _not_ ,” his voice darkened. “When I got suspended from school for shagging a classmate under the bleachers, they got serious with the punishments. I was a senior at the time, just a couple months from graduating and going off to college… so that’s what they punished me with: the threat of staying in my shitty little hometown forever.

“I was _planning_ on getting a scholarship so that they wouldn’t be financially involved, but with where my birthday falls in the year, I’d still need their permission to even submit my applications,” he explained.

“So what did you do?” I was sitting upright again. I could feel the stress pouring off of him.

“I _left_ —in the middle of the night. I spent the next year (until I turned 18) bartending at this super seedy dive bar in Amaranthine. I made some friends, but I could never get too close—I couldn't tell them my real name, even. That’s when I started calling myself Anders, actually.”

“Wait, _what_?” I sat bolt upright.

“That’s when I started calling myself—”

“No, no, I _heard_ you,” I shushed him. “I just don’t understand… what the hell is your name?”

He laughed, “Oh my _god_ , Al… We've talked about this...when Isabela was over?…”

“No, we _haven't_ …” My jaw dropped open.

“Anders from the Anderfels? That didn’t strike you as a bit odd?” he cackled.

I was starting to freak out. “Is our marriage even legal?”

“I eventually _changed_ my name to Anders officially—before I went to college,” he explained.

“Sweetheart, what is your _name_?”

“It was Erik—Erik Frey,” he shrugged up at me, like I’d uncovered some small wounded part of him.

“ _Erik_?” I cupped his face in my hands and kissed him. “My husband’s name is Erik?” I couldn’t help but laugh—he didn’t look like an _Erik_.

“Not anymore…” he groaned bashfully.

“Oh my god, I can’t get over this,” I muttered to myself.

“Okay, well, it’s Anders now,” he grouched. “Anders _Theirin_ , actually—don’t forget.”

“Oh, I won’t…”

“So I finally managed to start college—I worked my way through: a full course load and two jobs,” he continued. “And eventually, I was accepted to law school, and the rest is history…”

He stared off into the distance.

“...but I never spoke to my parents again… I’ve only been thinking about reaching out in recent years—I have little sister...she's only a little older than Kieran, actually.”

He’d mentioned his sister only _once_ before and it was in passing. “When can I meet her?”

He laughed, “probably never. She's still at home with my parents.”

I sat up and gasped. “Then we have to get her out of there! She can come stay with us!”

He rolled his eyes, “it's not that simple…”

I felt a hot ember of rage building in my gut. Why wouldn't he rescue his little sister from such a fate?

“...after a lifetime of living with them… I'm not sure what she would think of me—us…” he looked down at the floor miserably.

I wrapped my arms around him and cuddled him against my chest. “Sweetheart… _Erik_ …” I waited for a meager laugh. “Whatever you want to do—or not do… I’m _here_.”

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are embarking on a 5-part group of chapters that are all about Anders' past and future. They're all rather gut-wrenching, but if you stick it out, I bet you'll be happy you did. :) 
> 
> Thank you again for all your support.


	31. History - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair's novel is being made into a movie, which garners him some unwanted attention. It's especially bad for Anders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated T: very minor sexual innuendo... but swearing... always.

* * *

 

I still dream about Cullen sometimes. Not at much as I used to… but it happens more frequently than I’m comfortable with. Considering how happy I am in my current relationship, I think it’s strange. But still, I can’t control my subconscious.

 

One morning, I was having a particularly intense dream about Cullen when Anders rolled over in bed and woke me. In the space between waking and sleeping, I didn’t really know who he was. It scared me.

“Hey, are you okay?” asked Anders. He cupped my face with his palms and kissed me, but I couldn’t really see his features in the darkness.

I backed up from him and hit the headboard. I was shaking and sweating intensely.

“Hey, hey,” he soothed. He kneeled next to me and hugged me around the waist. “You’re okay… you must have been having _some_ dream,” he mused.

I exhaled slowly. “Sorry…”

Anders smirked at me and let his head rest on my shoulder. “What were you dreaming about?”

I didn’t want to tell him, but we were never very good at keeping secrets from each other.

“I was giving a reading of my book in some kind of university,” I explained. “...and Cullen was there—sitting in the back, appraising me.”

“Ooh, scary,” joked Anders.

I glared at him.

“Okay, sorry… continue,” he settled into my chest.

“I felt like my guts were spilling out all over the floor just seeing him there—hearing the words that I wrote _about him_ …” I continued.

“Sweetie, he read the whole book…” interrupted Anders.

“It wasn’t really anything from the book—it was much more serious, secret stuff that I would _never_ have written,” I explained.

He nodded.

“Okay… so after the reading was over he came up to me and said ‘you made that sound really believable—you’re a really good writer,’ and then left,” I concluded.

“That doesn’t sound _nearly_ as traumatizing as I anticipated,” said Anders. “...but I’m sorry you’re still dreaming about him… I wish you’d dream about me instead.”

“Me too,” I kissed the top of his head and sighed. “But sometimes it’s hard to forget the people with whom we have so much unfinished business.”

Even if Cullen hadn’t died, I think I would have still felt like that because there was no good way to _finish_ it. I always wanted us to “ _be best friends again_ ,” but, to be honest, we were _never_ friends. I was the person who was covertly in love with him while he used me as the receptacle for all his emotional ichor. Then he was the person who fucked me in secret; next we were enemies, later, unlikely acquaintances, and ultimately I was the person who held onto his memory long after he was gone.

“Do you ever dream about _me_?” asked Anders.

“Sometimes,” I said. It was actually a lie, though, I hardly ever dreamt about him. I wasn’t sure why.

“I don’t dream about you,” he admitted.

I exhaled, “Thank god you said that. I _never_ dream about you…”

He laughed. “To me, dreams represent things we can’t have or don’t think we deserve.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well… in your dream Cullen told you he liked your book—that you were a _good_ writer. Maybe you don’t think you deserve that,” mused Anders.

I nodded. My cheek rubbed against his hair.

“Or maybe you’re just playing out something you think would have been unlikely if he were here,” he continued.

“Maybe,” I mumbled.

“But I think he might have actually thought that, Al,” he said. “I think Cullen loved you all along—I just think he was _hugely_ fucked up.”

I laughed. So did Anders.

“I’m serious, though,” he added. “I think that our society fostered his sense of entitlement and hubris and never encouraged him to inspect his sensitivity or kindness. So he never learned to be _good_. He never had a chance.”

“How did _you_ turn out so good?” I asked. I hugged him tighter against me.

“I did everything society told me I shouldn’t,” he laughed and kissed a section of skin his mouth was near. It was lazy and silly, but I loved it.

“What time is it?” I asked suddenly.

“About five,” he answered.

“Want to fuck before you have to leave?” I raised a daring eyebrow even though he wasn’t looking at me.

He laughed. “Are you sure you aren’t too _traumatized_ by your nightmare?”

“Well, you’ll need to be gentle with  me…” I joked, rolling him onto his back.

“I don’t know that I can promise that…”

 

* * *

 

Little did I know, I would be reminded of Anders’ _goodness_ later that afternoon. I was being interviewed by a very snarky columnist. I’m not calling him a journalist _on purpose_. Even though my opinion on journalists was a low one, it didn’t even compare to how poorly I thought of people like this guy.

“So, Mr. Theirin,” he crossed his ankle over the opposite knee in some kind of familiar gesture that I hated. “Can I call you _Al_?”

I grimaced.

“Now that we all know _you’re_ the author of The Proposal, and with a movie in the works, everyone’s been asking the same question:” He paused. _What_ he was waiting for, I have no idea. “How much of it is _true_?”

I felt my face contort. “It’s a _novel_ ,” I said stupidly.

He laughed, “Everyone knows you’re a notorious playboy…”

 _I am?_ _Who is ‘everyone’?_

“...so the rumor mill has been alive with hints about who this mystery man could be…” he continued.

This was exactly the kind of attention I _didn’t_ want for the book. I’d published it under a _nom de plume_ and threatened everyone at the publishing house against revealing my identity, but it hadn’t helped. The media grabbed hold of it ran with the story of ‘Ferelden’s favorite bad boy publishes gay fiction.’ I found it ridiculous for a _variety_ of reasons, which I was about to _tell_ this guy if he didn’t back off.

“Most importantly,” the guy leaned in over my desk. “...when did you discover you were gay?”

That was it. I was _done_. “One: I’m _not_ gay. The character in the book isn’t either—you’d know that if you had actually _read_ it—but he’s not _me_. It _isn’t_ a memoir, which brings me to point _two_ : this novel _isn’t_ a sneaky way to reveal secrets about my life. It’s a _story_ , which has some implications for people in the world at large—not _just_ me.” I made the mistake of pausing to take a breath.

“—so you’re saying there _is_ some relationship to your life, then?”

I groaned. I walked right into that one.

“By the way, court documents show you recently got married; care to comment?” he added.

I thought about throwing him out of my office, but I knew that would give him an even _more_ sensational tabloid headline. Instead, I decided to shift his focus _off_ of the novel and onto my wedding. After all, I wasn’t embarrassed about Anders—he was _amazing_ —and, as we’d already established this morning, he was _good_ : completely unassailable.

“I _did_ just get married,” I sat back in my desk chair and folded my hands in my lap. “It was sort of spur of the moment, but we’re planning on having some kind of reception thing in the next couple months.”

The columnist looked titillated. He was writing in his little notepad furiously. “...and who is this mystery person?” he asked.

“His name is Anders—he’s an attorney.”

“Interesting name—is he from any _families_ my readers would know?”

“I’d rather not say,” I hedged.

“Ooh, exciting,” the interviewer smirked. He obviously assumed that _Theirins_ only married other prominent society names.

I rolled my eyes.

“How did you meet?” he asked.

I wasn’t about to tell _that_ story. “We’ve known each other quite a while and he’s been there for me during some really tough times… and now we’re just trying to start our own little family together…”

“So _children_ are on the horizon?” he interrupted.

“What?” I coughed. “No... not right _now_ , anyway…” I tripped over the words.

I’d been in enough interviewing situations to know this was _not_ going well. I basically zoned out for the rest of the interview and tried to say as few words as possible. The rest of the week passed as usual and I didn’t think about the interview again, _until_ …

 

* * *

 

“Holy shit, Al,” Anders called from the kitchen one afternoon the following weekend. “What did you tell this guy?”

“What?” I rushed out into the kitchen and squinted at him.

“This interviewer… from that shitty magazine…” he rolled his eyes. He looked flushed. He leaned over his computer on the counter and started to read.

[Alistair Theirin: playboy, author—turned family man.]

“Andraste’s ass…” I muttered.

Anders leaned in a little closer, picking out some choice sentences. “Although Alistair keeps his lips _sealed_ about the identity of his novel’s main love interest, sources reveal that he _may_ be the same person Alistair recently shared secret nuptials with at Denerim’s own courthouse.”

“Oh my god…” I ran a hand over my face.

“Upon questioning, he admits that children _are planned_ in the immediate future, which begs the question: adoption? Surrogacy?” he read.

“Al, you _own_ a newspaper—do you _not_ know how to be interviewed?” moaned Anders.

“I’m sorry…” I dropped my cheek onto the cold marble of the countertop. “I was trying so hard not to get into talking about Cullen and the book that I accidentally told him more personal stuff…”

“God, Al… this is ridiculous…” he complained.  “He even mentions that we’re going to have a wedding reception—the paparazzi will probably show up now…”

“Maybe we should just skip it, then,” I offered.

Anders looked at me like I was a monster. “So _I_ should pay the price for your blunder, then…?”

Anders _really_ wanted to have that reception. He’d been planning it since the morning after we got married. It was going to be _super_ fancy—white tie formal.

“Okay, then we’ll just hire more security.” I rounded the island to get to him and wrapped my arms around his waist. “I love you. I’m sorry I didn’t do well… but we’re going to be fine. Everyone will have forgotten about this stupid article by next week.” I kissed him. “Trust me.”

 

* * *

 

Only they _didn’t_. My office was abuzz with follow-up questions from all sorts of other entertainment news people. To call it news _at all_ seems a bit ridiculous.

Why anyone would want to know about _my_ life was sort of mysterious. I’d spent more than three decades keeping a low profile and now everything was exploding. At least no one had started to ask about Kieran. I hoped they _never_ would. He was still in the throws of trying to graduate from high school and deal with his recovering-addict ex-girlfriend. It was a complete _mess_ that would make perfect tabloid headlines.

Personally, I managed to largely ignore the extra attention. I kept my head down, did my work, and tried to wait it out. That is, until I got a panicked call from Anders one afternoon.

“Al, they went to my _house_ ,” he said.

“What? Who did?” I asked.

“These _vultures_ who have been hounding us…” he was grinding his teeth—I could hear it. “They went to my parents’ house and interviewed them.”

“And?”

“And it was _fucking_ horrible, Al,” shouted Anders. “You _know_ we have a complex past… I haven’t spoken to them in _years_ … and now all our dirty laundry is being aired publicly.”

“Oh no… I’m so sorry, Sweetie,” I muttered.

“It’s not your fault… I just don’t know…” he trailed off.

“Do you want me to come home?” I asked. It was only one o’clock in the afternoon and I had a million things to do, but I would come _straight home_ if he needed me.

“No… I have to finish some things… just come home right after work,” he paused. “And bring wine.”

I hung up and, _inadvisably_ , started googling his name. It only took me a second to see what he was talking about.

“Mr. and Mrs. Frey talk about their son—now _Anders Theirin_ —and his rejection of his entire family.”

 _Oh no_.

“‘Erik was a sweet boy,’ explains his mother, ‘but that all changed when he got to college—he became power-hungry and started plotting to climb the social ladder.’”

_What?_

“Sources reveal that Erik/“Anders” spent his time in law school _stalking_ Ferelden’s sweetheart, Alistair Theirin, hoping to lure him into a relationship. Once he got his claws in, he emotionally badgered Theirin into marrying him _without_ a prenup.”

“Genine!” I called into the hallway. My assistant appeared a minute later. “Have you _read_ this?!” I shouted as I turned my tablet to face her.

She squinted at the screen for a second and turned pink. “Yes, Ser… it’s horrible…”

“ _Oh my_ —Genine, what are we going to do about this?” I dropped my head into my hands on the desk.

She bit her bottom lip.

“Okay… there’s only _one_ thing I can think of…” I said suddenly. “I’m going to have to print a full reveal article and explain the whole damn thing.”

“Are you sure _that’s_ the right thing to do?” she asked skeptically.

“Well…” I grimaced. “I can’t think of any other way to set the record straight… and I’m not going to let Anders take the fall for this… _I love him_ …”

She smiled sadly. _Everyone_ knew Anders was my _better_ half.

“I’ll get the team working on the layout,” she said. 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay... now I've migrated all the chapters. I am going to delete The Review to clean up my Dashboard... but I'm saving all the comments you guys left for me. They were soooooo sweet and I loved them. :) All new updates will be here from now on... and there will be a new Epilogue eventually. :) 
> 
> THANK YOU!


	32. History - Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair comes home to find Anders falling apart. There's only one thing to do--deal with Anders' family once and for all.
> 
> \------------
> 
> Current and past readers: this is the first *new* chapter since I migrated all the Review chapters over here to the main story. From here on in, everything will proceed as usual.
> 
> \------------
> 
> Rated E - some intense sex. I'm blushing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alistair talks directly to the reader a lot in this chapter. That's becoming one of my favorite things about this story. :)

* * *

 

Despite my best efforts to get home quickly, Anders was already in bed when I arrived. There was an empty wine bottle next to him on the bedside table.

“Hey,” I said quietly.

He sat up suddenly and crawled toward me across the sheets—he was naked.

“I need you to have sex with me _right now_ ,” he said.

I felt myself recoil slightly. I could tell he wasn’t in a good head space. “Anders… I don’t think that’s going to solve anything.”

He padded across the carpet toward me and pulled me into a desperate kiss—he was using more tongue than he needed to. The whole thing felt _wrong_. He tasted like wine and despair.

“Sweetheart,” I whispered against his lips. “Let’s _talk_ about this…”

He backed up. He looked furious suddenly, “Oh, I see… so it’s fine for _you_ to demand sex in the middle of the night or when I’m late for things or when I just _don’t feel like it_ , but for _you_ ‘no means no’?!”

“That’s— _god_ , Anders…” I reached out for him, but he was already back in bed, curling a comforter around his shoulders. “That’s not what I meant… _I_ …”

"Al, I need to be alone right now…” he said darkly.

“I don’t think that’s _true_.” I crawled across the bed toward him, but was careful not to touch him.  “I wrote something I really want you to see…”

He turned slightly, a nervous look on his face.

I held up my iPad, open to the mock-up of the article I’d written today. His eyes scanned from left to right—by the second paragraph he was starting to smile, despite himself.

“Oh my god, Al…” he breathed. “That’s amazing—I can’t believe you wrote that…”

“Well, I realize my writing is usually _terrible_ …” I joked.

He hit my arm and then kissed me. “Why did you do that?”

“Because I love you… and I want everyone to _know_ that you’re the love of my life…” I answered. “...and I must _really_ want the paparazzi at our reception.”

He laughed. “That is incredibly sweet, Al...but it doesn’t fix the fact that I’m going to have to deal with my family…”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well…” he swallowed hard. “I know now that they’re _angry_ at me—maybe as angry as I am at them… and I don’t want that to stand…”

I nodded.

“Especially with Kieran around… he has grandparents—sort of…” he shrugged.

“—They’re absolutely grandparents—step-grandparents, anyway…” I assured him.

“...and if we ever decide to have _more_ kids…” he added.

I still wasn’t sold on the ‘ _more kids_ ’ idea, but I knew what he _meant_. I loved him so much in that moment, I almost agreed to ‘more kids’ just to make him smile.

“What do you need me to do?” I asked.

“Come with me… to my _home_ …”

 

* * *

 

That weekend, after a rather harrowing travel experience, we arrived at a tall, thin house on a busy street. A screen door was loose on its hinges in front of the main entrance. It whined unpleasantly as he opened it to knock.

I was immediately struck by the level of disrepair everything was in—chipping paint, rotted clapboards. It seemed _wrong_ to knock on the door of such a place—like _willingly_ approaching something haunted.

“Ready?” he whispered to me.

I nodded, fixing a smile in place.

The door creaked open a moment later. On the other side was a young woman—barely older than Kieran. She had straggly blonde hair and a sharp nose. The resemblance to Anders was uncanny—this must be his sister.

“Erik,” she breathed. Her eyes widened to an alarming degree as she stepped down onto the landing with us, closing the door behind her.

On our same level, she was _very_ small—smaller than seemed _feasible_ for holding such large eyes.

“Hi,” said Anders. The single syllable sounded _miserable_ —like a plea for mercy.

“ _God_ , Erik,” she swallowed hard, “do mom and dad know you're here?”

He shook his head.

This was news to me. I knew the details of this trip were a bit scant, but I never _dreamed_ that he'd make me an accomplice to what was sure to be an unpleasant _surprise_. 

“What?” I gasped.

The young woman—Anders’ sister, whose name I didn't know—looked up at me for the first time.

“Hi,” I stammered, extending my hand. “I'm Alistair.”

“Hi,” she said tentatively, “I'm Alice.”

Anders seemed to remember how introductions work. “Maker, sorry, Al…” he wiped a hand across his brow. “This is my little sister… ironically, also _Al_.”

I laughed a bit awkwardly.

“Alice,” he smiled at her, “this is my husband.”

I watched the color drain out of her face. This was going to be a _horrendous_ day.

“I know who he is, _Erik_ … the whole _world_ seems to…” She exhaled sharply, “Mom and dad are going to lose their shit.”

Anders sighed in frustration. “I'm in my 30s, you know… they don't get to decide.”

She made a face that looked like dissent.

“Are they home?” asked Anders.

She nodded. “Come on…”

She opened the door and we tumbled in behind her. On the inside of the house, I walked straight into a bulwark of cigarette smoke—the inhabitants of this house were, _apparently_ , smokers for many years: the walls were coated in a sickly yellow film from top to bottom. The dark wood of the long corridor was caked with dirt and I thought I smelled black mold intermingled with the cigarettes.

_Anders grew up in this?_

A pit formed in my stomach—the consequence of disgust, terror, and protectiveness.

Before we rounded the corner, Anders reached for my hand.

“Mom?” I heard Anders address his mother like he was miles away. His voice sounded 15 years younger—it shook with fear.

The woman at the sink did not look up. Her back was facing us as she mechanically washed the dishes. Her flaxen hair was stringy and dry-looking.

_We all waited._

“Mom?” asked Alice. She approached the woman, whose body might have been _stone_ for how still she was. “Erik’s here…”

At that, the statue _moved_. She turned her head sharply to the side, exposing her profile—that same nose I now knew was a family trait.

“Well?” she called over her shoulder.

Her voice was cold and dark—that single syllable sent chills up my spine. When I think about the scariest moments of my life, this is right between discovering that I might be HIV positive and learning I had a son.

“Mom, I…” Anders took two steps forward, but faltered, “we need to talk.”

She finished turning _excruciatingly_ slowly. When we came face to face, she looked me over appraisingly and eventually sneered in such a way that her top teeth were exposed. They were yellowed and chipped, a level of decay befitting the house we were standing in.

“Erik…” she made a clicking sound with her tongue. “You've been gone a long time…”

He let his gaze fall to the floor between them. “I know… I'd like to explain—”

She cut him off, “Come out to the porch. Carry that coffee pot…” she grabbed two mugs off the counter and turned on her heel. We followed in horrified silence—the _saddest_ parade.

At the threshold of the porch, she raised a hand at me. “We don't need you out here,” she said flatly.

I'm not sure what my face looked like, but I'm sure it wasn't anything _nice_. I was so shocked I could have slapped her.

 

* * *

 

Alice was also relegated to the kitchen. When the porch door slammed unceremoniously, we sat on opposite sides of the table and tried not to look at each other.

Eventually, the silence became intolerable. “So, how old are you?”

She looked up at me and squinted. “22.”

That's older than I thought. She looked younger than Kieran—much more tired, though. Her eyes were slightly sunken and glassy.

“So are you in college?” I asked.

She rolled her eyes and gestured to the kitchen’s walls.  “What do you think?”

I grimaced.

“Nope… Erik’s the only one to get _out_ of this place…” she added.

_What did that mean?_

“...and I suppose this is par for the course for him… marrying _you_ …” she huffed.

Now I was getting offended. I felt sweat beading against my collar. I thought she was going to be my _ally_ , but apparently she held the same bigoted beliefs as her mother. I rose to my full sitting height and leaned into the table.

“ _Anders_ and I are in love… what does that have to do with you?” I cleared my throat pointedly.

She squinted at me again. She looked mildly confused.

“His orientation doesn't change who he is, Alice,” I said angrily. It was a stupid argument, but saying _nothing_ didn't seem like an option.

She stood up, her jaw tense. “ _That's_ the problem.”

“What?” I asked.

Now it was _my_ turn to feel confused and small and 15 years younger. What on _earth_ was happening in this crazy cigarette house?

“...is _that_ what he told you? That I care he's gay?” Her voice rose angrily.

I shook my head numbly. I wanted to tell her that he’s _not_ gay, but that distinction hardly mattered in this scenario.

“I don't give a shit about that… my _parents_ do, but that's not _me_ ,” she explained, pacing from her chair to the sink and back again. “Erik has been ‘too good for us’ my entire life. As soon as he could, he left the house and never looked back…”

I swallowed hard.

“...he went to college in Kirkwall and never even wrote me,” she stifled a slightly hysterical laugh. “I found out he was becoming a lawyer because of a newspaper clipping about his summa cum laude graduation… and then he worked for a high profile nonprofit organization… but that wasn't good enough, he had to move over to corporate law…”

She pushed a hand through her hair in exactly the way _he_ did whenever he was stressed.

“And now he brings _you_ around—Alistair Theirin…” she scoffed around my name. “He probably set the whole thing up from day one…”

“What?” I managed.

“He's the most selfish person I’ve ever met—an _egomaniac_ ,” she said flatly. “And he doesn't give a shit about the destruction he leaves in his wake.”

“Destruction?” I echoed.

Alice looked at me strangely—like she was assessing if I knew something secret.

I was floored; this was _Anders_ we were talking about! He was the person who saved my _life_ a couple years ago. He taught me self-worth and put all my pieces back together whenever they invariably got mixed up. He was _everything_ to me. And _now_ , to hear someone disparage him like that—it seemed unconscionable.

“And bringing you here is just another way of saying we're not good enough and we never were,” she bit her bottom lip.

“I don't understand,” I stammered. “Anders wants you to be at the reception—he wants to be _accepted_ by you.”

“No… he just wanted you to see this squalor he grew up in so you'll take pity on him when the truth comes out.”

I felt my jaw drop open. _What truth?_

“He's _manipulating_ you…” she finished.

Before I had a chance to say anything else, Anders exploded through the porch door. “Al, we're leaving.”

I stood and nodded to Alice, who was making a strange face at me. It was a warning: ‘ _Watch out for my brother. He's dangerous_.’

 

* * *

 

I followed Anders outside. We didn't speak again until we got back to the hotel. The town where Anders grew up was really small. It only had one hotel—it was more of a bed and breakfast, actually.

The room was tiny—sized for children, not two grown men—but I liked it. The bathroom had a claw-foot bathtub. It wasn't as big as the one in Rivain, but it had charm and I was trained to think of _all_ bathtubs as opportunities. Only—things weren't good right now. I was _afraid_ of what our conversations would be like tonight.

It was almost nine o’clock when we finally put our things down in the hotel room, but it felt like 3am; we were emotionally exhausted.

“So… how _are_ you?” I asked.

Anders was in the process of undressing. He got down to his boxers and sat on the bedspread.

“I'm—I'm really upset,” he answered.

“I understand that.”

“What did my sister say while you were inside?” he asked.

I wished he hadn't brought that up, but he deserved to know.

“She told me that she doesn't care if you're gay…”

“Andraste… I'm not gay—how _hard_ is it??” he interrupted.

I almost laughed. ‘ _Bi-erasure_ ’ was probably not a term they knew all the way out here.

“...she said her problem is that you are ashamed of the family…” I continued.

He dropped his head into his palms and growled.

“...and she said you just brought me there to get me to feel bad for you…” I finished. I wasn't about to mention the ‘ _selfish egomaniac_ ’ thing or the ‘ _when the truth comes out_ ’ thing—I didn't think he could take it right now.

“I can't believe I thought she'd be on our side…” he picked his head up and looked at me. “I don't think I can talk about this right now…”

“That's fine, Sweetie… let's just get some sleep,” I suggested.

“No,” he grabbed both sides of my face and kissed me hard. “I _need_ you…”

 

* * *

 

Have you ever had sex while you're _incredibly_ sad? It's different. Sometimes it's _better_ —it was _that_ night. Anders and I rolled into each other with temerity I’ve rarely seen. He was unhinged. He asked me to do things I didn’t expect. And I did them— _all of them_ —because it was the only thing I could do. I couldn't fix his family; I couldn't take his years of emotional pain away; I couldn't even really reconcile the Anders I knew with this _Erik_ character I'd heard about… but I _could_ let him fuck me.

The first thing he did was start ordering me around.

“Get down on your knees,” he rasped. His teeth were close enough to nip my ear as he spoke.

I dropped hard—my knee caps felt instantly bruised. He got out of his underwear and pushed his dick into my face. I let my mouth open gently and sucked him inside. He tasted salty already.

Just as I was establishing a rhythm, he grabbed the back of my head— _hard_.

I looked up at him a little desperately, but blinked something that meant, ‘ _okay_.’

He got my meaning, obviously, because the next second he was thrusting into my mouth carelessly. I focused all my attention on not choking. I hoped he couldn’t hear how hard I was breathing through my nose.

I reached my hands around to grab the backs of his thighs, but he shook me off—slapped my hands away and renewed his grip on my hair. It’s terrible to admit, but I was actually a little _scared_. I don’t mean to imply that I wasn’t consenting, because I _absolutely_ was, but I had never seen him like this. To be honest, he reminded me of Cullen.

A second later, I lost the battle with my gag reflex when he came. It took me by surprise and I wasn’t ready to actually _swallow_ it. A few tributaries formed along the branch of my neck.

He kneeled in front of me and dragged the flat of his tongue from my clavicle to my lips.

“You are so sexy,” I managed.

He bit his lip. “We’re not done yet…”

He grabbed my hands and pulled me upright. My legs were slightly numb from kneeling—I stumbled into the bed.

“Lie back,” he instructed.

I scooted until my back was against the headboard.

He looked me over hungrily. “I want to watch you,” he said.

“Watch me what?” I asked. It was sort of _stupid_ , but there was no blood left in my brain.

He kneeled at the end of the bed. “Show me what you do when you’re alone.”

I swallowed hard. We’d been together for years—I’d certainly masturbated with him—but something about the way he was asking now made me nervous. Nevertheless, I grabbed my dick and tugged it a few times.

He scowled at me and crawled until he was on all fours over me. “That is _not_ what you do…”  He let his body lower slightly until the skin of his hip was close enough for the tip of my dick to brush it. “ _Faster_ …” he coached.

I felt my brow furrow, but I _tried_ to obey.

“Do you want me?” he asked.

I nodded desperately.

He looked at his own erection pointedly—he was almost completely hard again. Considering we were nearing 40, that was an accomplishment. “Okay, I’m going to go fill that bathtub… and you’re going to sit here and watch me do it. Don’t you _dare_ come while I’m gone.”

His facial expressions were so foreign to me—trenchant and acerbic. But I had already decided: I was here for _him_ —to do whatever he _needed_.

I tried to kiss him before he left, but he leaned out of my reach. So I just nodded and dropped my feet off the edge of the bed.

He leaned over the side of the tub and tested the temperature painstakingly slowly. I knew he was bending in that particular way so I’d look at him. To say he was ‘ _hot_ ’ would have been a _grave_ understatement. He was slender and sinewy, but his muscles were full where they needed to be. His ass was perfect—I could probably do a hundred deadlifts a day for the rest of my life and never have an ass like his.

My hand found its way back to my cock and stroked lazily. I wasn’t currently in danger of coming all over my hand, but I knew it wouldn’t take much once he had me in that water.

“Okay, come in here,” he directed.

I stepped over the edge of the tub gingerly. The water was the perfect temperature. More perfect, though, was the way he pulled me backward against his chest. He reached around my waist and massaged the skin of my inner thighs while I panted and whined against what little of his neck I could reach.

“I love you so much,” I whispered.

“That’s not going to help you…” he laughed.

At least he was _laughing_ at this point. The only alternative emotion I could imagine in this scenario was utter _horror_.

“Okay, Al…” he bit the edge of my ear, “what do you _feel_ like?”

“Um… wet? Aroused?” I laughed. “...a bit _frustrated_ …?”

He grabbed my dick and stroked it. He thumbed the slit as he went. “Do you want me?” he asked.

“Of course,” I whimpered.

“Then let me open you up.”

It was too hard at this angle. I kissed his cheek and pulled myself up to kneeling. I leaned forward against the opposing tub wall. I couldn’t see Anders, but I felt him a second later. His hands spread me apart and he was suddenly licking me. I whimpered slightly. He had _very specific_ requirements for this particular thing—a certain level of cleanliness, certainly, which being _in_ a bathtub fulfilled—but more than that, he required _absolute_ inhibition. In fact, he _usually_ had to be sort of drunk. What he was currently doing with his tongue and lips reminded me that he wasn’t himself—he was some _other_ Anders: a wounded, dejected, _inconsolable_ one.

I pulled away and turned to look at him. “You don’t have to do that.”

He grabbed my hips and pulled me back, “I want to.”

I nodded and returned my arms to the side of the tub in front of me. He bit the skin of my ass.

I almost yelped.

“Keep it together, Al,” he joked.

“I’m trying— _someone_ is being very unpredictable…”

He didn’t say anything, but I felt his lips vibrate slightly—I hoped he was laughing.

A minute later, when I was panting and squirming, I felt him shift. The water splashed against the sides of the tub and I knew what was about to happen. He rubbed the head of his cock against the spit he’d left behind.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“God, yes…” I pushed back against him, hurrying him inside. “Fuck me.”

He grabbed my hips with both hands and pushed. I was so wet and so turned on that it was hardly a struggle at all. Within a few thrusts, he was so deep in me I could feel him in my abdomen. (Okay, I _couldn’t_ _really_ —but you know what I mean.)

“I’m going to come so deep in you,” he snarled.

I turned to look at him as much as I could. “Is that supposed to be a threat?” I laughed.

He raised an eyebrow and the flat of his hand in tandem. Until that day, he’d never intimated that he’d like to hit me. I winced in anticipation. Obviously, he didn’t hit me _hard_ —but it still stung... _emotionally_?

“Turn around and shut up,” he commanded.

“What?”

He hit me again—it wasn’t harder, exactly, but it _was_ louder.

“ _Turn around_.” He put a hand on my waist and gripped the skin. Before we broke eye contact, he almost _smiled_.

I nodded begrudging agreement and he started to thrust. It was almost too much—nearly too hard and too fast… _certainly_ too deep. As I tried to relinquish whatever lingering control I had, I realized he was close. I knew all the noises he made.

“I’m gonna come,” he muttered.

“ _I know_.”

At the second he came, he grabbed onto my hips so hard I knew I would have fingertip-shaped bruises. I felt him spasm and writhe until everything was still. He backed out of me and collapsed against the side of the tub.

I followed him and wrapped my arms around him in a squeezing hug. “I love you,” I whispered. “I love you _so_ much.”

He nodded, apparently unable to form words.

I held onto him for almost a full minute before he pushed me back and looked at me dangerously. “Now I want _you_ ,” he croaked.

“What?”

“ _Fuck_ me,” he bit his lip.

I probably haven’t been explaining this top/bottom scenario very well. I keep making it sound like he _hated_ to be on the receiving end, but that wasn’t really true. He just liked to be inside me _better_. Sometimes, though—especially when he was feeling _out of control_ —he liked me to fuck him. Because our lives had been so _good_ up until now, I didn’t really _know_ that Anders—I hadn’t had occasion to meet him.

“Stand up,” I pushed his waist a little until he was facing away from me.

He smiled, but he didn’t fight me. He was still soft and pliable in my hands. I realize now that he must have trusted me _a lot_. He’d just had the worst day of his life and he was still willing to be this vulnerable with me.

I sucked my first two digits into my mouth and coated them in spit. I wrapped my left arm around Anders’ waist and pulled him toward me as I pushed my fingers inside.

He gasped.

“Okay?” I asked.

He nodded. I could see him biting his lip, despite the wet hair in his face.

I gently pressed in and out of him until it was easy. I kept kissing the skin of his shoulders and neck.

“I’m ready,” he whispered. Even in his current state, he was holding onto the vestiges of pushing me around.

It wasn’t nearly as hard to get inside him today as it was on other days.

“You must really love me today,” I joked.

He laughed. I _felt_ the contraction.

That night, he made the most _beautiful_ noises. He groaned and whimpered and sighed, but all the while he pushed back against me—edging me deeper. Eventually, I felt myself nearing an orgasm for the _millionth_ time.

“Sweetie,” I whimpered against the skin of his shoulder, “I’m gonna come… can I?”

He laughed, “Do it.”

That was all it took. The second it was _allowed_ , it was like the world exploded into a thousand beautifully colored sparkling gems. At the center of them, Anders and I were in a swirling haze of happiness and peace.

And then _reality_ settled back in.

We washed and wandered back to bed in almost complete silence. We kissed and rolled and rubbed against each other, but it wasn’t _possible_ to be close enough. And in the midst of all that happiness I realized— _that_ was the difference. When Cullen was rough with me in bed, it continued to affect me long after. He left me with the scars of his own emotional turmoil. But when Anders was rough with me that night, he made it a point to tell me he loved me in a hundred different ways. His pain drained with the bathwater.

I rolled him onto his back and kissed him more deeply than all the other times.

“I love you, Alistair,” he whispered.

“I love you too, Anders.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more chapters in this arc. :)


	33. History - Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair and Anders go back to the house--all hell breaks loose. Alistair relates a memory of Cullen to the present predicament.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated M: some violence and lots of sadness.

* * *

 

The next morning I woke up to an empty bed. I blinked a few times and tried to figure out what was going on. My body felt _wrecked_ —sore in places I couldn't exercise. Everything smelled like Anders, but I couldn't see him.

“Anders?” I croaked.

“I'm here.” He was behind me, curled in the window seat overlooking the tiny town he grew up in.

I pulled the blankets with me and went to sit next to him. It was winter and the morning air was seeping in through cracks in the window frames.

“I love you,” I mumbled.

“Love you too…” he didn’t look at me, but he found my hand anyway.

“Are you ready to talk?” I asked.

He sighed and closed his eyes.

“If you’re not… it’s okay…” I squeezed his palm and pulled the blankets tighter around my shoulders.

“I’m not sure, really,” said Anders. “My mother reminded me of some really _terrible_ things…”

I grabbed him and wrapped him in my arms. I considered carrying him back to bed. I felt like a Neanderthal—driven by protective instinct.

“...but it made me sure of _one_ thing,” he kissed the skin of my neck gently. “ _You’re_ my family now…”

I breathed into him.

“But that isn't going to stop the tabloids… with the movie coming out, they're going to run with this story more than ever… we need to find a way to shut it down,” he said.

I nodded, but didn't back up. I hugged him more tightly than I thought was safe for the integrity of his ribs.

“So we need to go back…” said Anders.

 

* * *

 

“If that’s the way you feel, then this is going to be our _last_ conversation.” Anders looked up at me. “How was that?”

We’d managed to bathe and get dressed, but now we were stalled in the parking lot across from his parents’ house. He was practicing for all possible outcomes.

“It sounds good—very _strong_ ,” I told him.

“Okay… what if they say something about _you_?” he asked.

“Then _I_ will deal with that—I’ve been in _lots_ of situations where people thought I was horrible…” That sentence conjured visions of Icis crumpled in the corner of that doorway at Cullen’s house—the way they looked at me: like I was _nothing_. It seemed impossible that Anders’ parents could do or say anything _worse_ than that.

He nodded, but he didn’t look sure.

“No matter what happens,” I took his hand, “we’re in this together.”

We crossed the street and climbed the rickety stairs in utter silence—preparing for the coming storm. Only, when we opened the door and stepped into that tiny, dark, disgusting hallway… something was _wrong_.

The flashing was absolutely blinding. In looking back, there were probably only five or six cameras on us, but the contrast between a Nikon’s flashbulb and that dark hallway was significant. I held up my hand in front of my eyes and tried to shield Anders, but I knew it was already too late. The headlines would read, ‘ _Alistair Theirin attempts to pay off in-laws in exchange for silence_ ,’ and ‘ _Dirty secrets exposed: Erik Frey’s double life_.’

I grabbed Anders and pulled him through the sea of vultures into the kitchen. When we were inside, we started to put the pieces together. Alice was sitting at the table, talking to someone with the notepad. Anders’ parents were in the living room, just out of my sight, but I could hear his mother saying something about ‘unnatural behavior.’ I could _guess_ what that meant.

“What the hell is going on?” I asked Alice. I spoke quietly, but it didn’t make it any less conspicuous.

She shrugged, but didn’t answer. Another voice boomed out from over my shoulder.

“Get away from my daughter,” said a man—I assumed he was Anders’ father.

I turned and straightened. At my full height, I seemed taller than he, but now I think it was an illusion. I think years of decay in his spine made him shorter—maybe necrosis of his femur from chronic alcoholism… I can’t be sure. Suffice it to say, he looked like a man who _used_ to be taller. He was dilapidated just like the rest of the house.

“Mr. Frey…” I took two steps closer to him and extended my palm. He looked at it in disgust until I gave up. “We should talk— _without_ an audience.”

The assorted reporters scribbled on notepads and tapped their iPads in apparent titillation.

“I think I’d rather have witnesses for this…” he growled.

I blinked somewhat painfully—not for me, for Anders. I could see him in my periphery—leaning into the doorway. He looked terrified—more than that, he looked broken.

“Mr. Frey,” I tried again. (It might sound like I was trying to be respectful, but I _wasn’t_ —I just didn’t know his first name.)

“We’re here to try to fix this…” I said.

He scoffed. “Well, you can certainly _try_ …” then he looked at Anders. “But no school or church ever could fix what was broken with _that one_ …”

I watched Anders shiver. And that was it—I _snapped_. The next second, I had grabbed Anders’ father by the collar and shoved him up against one of the dirty yellow walls. His head hit with a crack.

Every camera clicked at the same moment. I realized I’d _completely_ fucked this situation up—even more than it was _originally_ fucked up, I guess—but it was too late to turn back. I had one chance to say all the things I’d ever want to say to this bigoted asshole.

“Listen,” I clenched my jaw. “ _Anders_ and I are in love—we got married: it _happened_. If you want to go around talking to these shitty little magazines to make a few bucks, that’s your business. But just know—I’ll consider it my mission to make you the most hated person in Thedas. What’s _more_ , say _one word_ about me or him and I’ll slap you with a lawsuit so fast that you can kiss this shitty little life goodbye. Forget retiring and drinking yourself into oblivion—you’ll be so buried in legal documents you might as well give me the deed now and get it _the fuck_ over with.”

I pulled my arm back and looked at Anders. I kept my voice decidedly neutral. “Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

The whole way back to the car I just tried to focus on breathing. I was shaking so much it was hard to get the key lined up with the ignition. Anders didn’t say anything either. His face was white.

“I’m sorry,” I finally managed. I reached over the shifter to take his palm, but he pulled away.

“Please _don’t_.”

I knew well enough to leave it alone. I put the car in drive and headed back toward the little hotel. We needed to get our things and get the _hell_ out of there as soon as possible. I didn’t say anything else until we were back upstairs, packing our things.

“Do you want to fly home at 6 in business or wait for first class at 8:15?” I asked, flipping through the options on my phone.

“Whatever…” he answered.

“Well… would you rather have more time to get through security—maybe have a drink in the terminal?” I suggested.

He looked at me with a slightly disgusted expression. “I don’t _always_ have to drink, you know…”

“ _Okay_ …” I bit my lip and resumed my packing.

“You know, Al…” he was suddenly standing right in front of me—stern expression and hands on his hips. “I didn’t _need_ you to do that. All you did is prove him right—I’m just a social climbing, vindictive, litigious, _asshole_ , who gets other people to fight my battles for me.”

My mouth dropped open slightly.

“...and the way you _attacked_ him… I—I can’t even _look_ at you… how could you _do_ that?” His voice was suddenly breaking. His eyes were glassy. “How could you do _that_ in front of me? ...knowing what you _know_ about me…”

“Oh my god…” I lunged forward, wrapped my arms around him and cradled his head in my hands. “I’m sorry—so, _so_ sorry…” I whispered.

Surprisingly, he didn’t struggle away. Instead, he stood still as a statue in the circle of my arms and sobbed into my shoulder—miserable and small.

“Anders…” I whispered. “I just got _so_ mad—I couldn’t let him say that shit about you…”

He sneered. “I _know_ all the ‘ _reasons_ ’ people are violent… _Al_ … you scared the shit out of me.” His face cracked—he cried so hard he was gasping for air. He pushed me away and curled up on his side on the little bed.

I didn’t know what else to say, so I sat in the high backed chair opposing him and _waited_. We’d cried together enough times that I knew it was sometimes necessary. Usually, _he_ was the one comforting me, but I had certainly learned from his example. We just needed time. To that end, I elected to get us on a flight the following morning. Until we fell asleep, I stayed right in that spot, listening to him breathe. At about 3am, I woke up for the millionth time and chanced getting into bed with him. Still, I took care _not_ to touch him.

Loving Anders was hard that weekend—especially hard that night—but it was _worth it_.

           

* * *

 

“I can’t leave like this…”

I blinked a few times. I realized it was morning and Anders was facing me.

He looked at me pointedly. “I just _can’t_ leave it without saying anything for myself…”

I grabbed onto his hip and pulled him closer. It _could_ have been sweet, but it _wasn’t_ —in this context, it only served to make me seem like more of a neanderthal than I had already proven myself to be the night before.

“Stop it,” he said, rolling out of my reach. “I’m _serious_. I need to go back—alone.”

“Alone?” I asked, sitting up. That was the worst idea I’d heard in ages. It was also in direct opposition to his assertion that we were _family_ now. It served as a reminder of how badly I’d fucked up.

“Yes… alone,” he dropped his feet off the side of the bed and pulled a sweater on over his head. “Pack up… I’ll be back before it’s time to leave for the airport.” There was no arguing with him. He was determined.

“Okay… I love you?” My voice came out high and pinched—the most _pitiful_ of questions.

He finished dressing and never looked back.

 

* * *

 

The waiting was torture. I decided to look over the new script pages I’d been sent for The Proposal’s movie adaptation, but it just made me angrier. There was this one scene that I’d written specifically for the movie—the producers didn’t like it. It wasn’t in the book, but it was something that really happened to Cullen and me. They said it wasn’t _believable_. It had to do with Cullen and his family. It was _endearing_ —it was meant to make the audience relate to him.

Something I might not have mentioned before is that Cullen’s family was bilingual. They all spoke perfect Antivan. I loved the way his mouth curled around the words whenever he’d get a call from his mother or sisters.

I could understand a lot of it—I’d taken four years in high school—but I was bashful about speaking it in front of him. One day, he pushed me.

 

“Come on, Al…” Cullen nudged my shoulder, “just translate that first plack.”

We were in a museum just off campus, reading about Giant Sloths. There was a stuffed one in the middle of the exhibit and lots of dioramas all around the circumference of the room. Each one had information in several languages. Antivan was the second—just after the Common Tongue.

“Fine,” I grumbled. “But I’ll translate _from_ Antivan—not into it,” I groused.

He laughed. “Fine.”

I looked up at the first sign. He must have seen my eyes darting from translation to translation because he grabbed my shoulders and re-directed my gaze to the adjacent sign, all the while covering the Common Tongue on top.

“Start here,” he pointed.

I laughed and blushed, “Okay… ‘the giant sloth is thought to have… _existed_?”

He nodded.

“...existed in most of northern Ferelden throughout… throughout… what’s that word?”

“Most,” he answered.

“Oh… throughout most of the… oh maker, you’re going to have to help me with that one…” I laughed again.

“Oh… that’s a tough one—it’s ‘dragon’,” he smiled.

“Throughout most of the dragon age,” I finished reading, thoroughly pleased with myself, but pink from having an audience as fluent as Cullen.

“You did great—next time, you’ll translate it the other way…” he smirked.

“I don’t think so,” I rolled my eyes.

“But what are you going to do when you meet my sisters?” he asked. “Are you going to just pretend you don’t understand what they’re saying? You need to practice.”

I shrugged, but he had a point. We had a trip planned to meet his family. I was incredibly twitterpated about sleeping in his house… and I wanted to make a good impression. I spent the next few weeks thinking, reading, and _dreaming_ in Antivan.

When I was with Cullen a decade later, I wanted to learn Antivan again. I was seduced by the idea of communicating with the person I loved in two languages, instead of just one. Those _kids_ I envisioned were also bilingual. In that daydream, I was _completely_ fluent. It’s amazing what we’ll do for love.

 

On that particular day, sitting in the lobby of that rinky-dink hotel, I was willing to do _anything_ for Anders—even if ‘anything’ meant ‘nothing.’

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope that everyone who was over at The Review made the transition back here. :) 
> 
> I really appreciate any comments and feedback that you'd like to give... so leave a comment, send me a tweet @ponticle, or visit me on tumblr @ponticle.
> 
> Thank you! :)


	34. History - Part 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair and Anders return from their trip, but nothing is normal. Alistair struggles with his need to fix things on his own timetable. Anders needs space--Alistair can't seem to give it to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated E: very minor NSFW content, but lots of swearing and sadness.

* * *

 

When Anders finally resurfaced, I had migrated down into the lobby and given up on script edits. Instead, I was re-reading one of my favorite novels, In One Person by John Irving. (If you haven’t read that, you really should.)

I closed the book and put it into my bag as soon as I saw him. I wanted him to know that I was waiting—that I was there _for him_.

“Hi, Sweetheart…” I stood and extended my arms toward him tentatively.

“Hi,” he sidestepped me. He didn’t look _upset_ , exactly, but he didn’t look _okay_ either.

“Are you ready to go?” he asked.

I nodded and grabbed our bags.

“I got you the window seat…” I brushed our shoulders together in a gesture of camaraderie, but he bristled when we touched.

 

* * *

 

The whole way to the airport, I tried to talk to him. I mentioned innocuous things we passed on the road; I commented on the weather. His responses—when he gave any at all—were one syllable. The trip through airport security was much of the same. In the gate area, I leaned into his field of vision and tried to smile.

“Do you want to get a drink? We have time…” I waited. “...not that you _need_ to drink… I just meant… because it’s _fun_ —we always drink in the airport…”

He shrugged.

“Well… we’ve got a wine bar or a brewery—what do you feel like?” I asked, looking around the terminal.

He bit his lip. “You go ahead… I think I just want to sit down for a while…” He dropped his bag next to a deserted section of vinyl seats and flopped into the closest chair.

“Are you angry at me?” I asked. I didn’t dare sit next to him, even though I wanted to.

He ground his teeth. “No… I’m just—I’m not really ready to _talk_ to you…”

“Okay…” I felt my face wrinkle into a wounded shape. “What _are_ you ready for?”

He rolled his eyes. “Just leave me alone for a while, Alistair…”

That was the _last_ thing I wanted to do. I felt compelled to grab onto him, but I _didn’t_.

“Okay… whatever you need…”

 

* * *

 

On the plane, we sat next to each other, but we might as well have been on opposite sides of the plane. At one point, I _almost_ fell asleep—my eyes were closed—and I heard him _refer_ to me as his husband, but other than that, we could have been strangers.

“Well, here we are,” I said in our doorway. I dropped our bags and filled my chest with familiar air. It had taken us all day to get home—with the time difference it was time to go to sleep again.

“Do you need anything before bed, Sweetie?” I asked.

Anders shook his head and went into the bathroom. I watched him mechanically wash his face and brush his teeth.

When we reunited in our room, he dressed like he was going outside for a winter run—joggers and a long sleeved t-shirt. We had a long-standing joke that coming to bed dressed was a sign of _the end_. He slid beneath the covers and rolled away from me.

“Anders… Are you okay?”

He pulled the blankets more tightly around his shoulders.

“I am _here_ for you…if you need anything…” I mumbled.

“I need some _space_.” His voice was cold—exasperated.

“Okay…” I backed up to my own side of the bed. I hoped he'd explain it more, but he didn't.

 

* * *

 

The next morning I woke up in an empty bed—naked and alone.

“Anders?” I called.

“Mmm?” he mumbled from the bathroom. The shower was running.

I stumbled into the bathroom and opened the glass door. The steam was so thick I couldn't really see him, but I grabbed onto his waist as soon as I bumped into him. It was habit.

“Stop it, Al,” he backed away from me and almost smacked into the shower wall.

“Hey…. it's _okay_...” I reached out for him, but he swatted my hands away.

“I'm not kidding—” he said.

“Okay.”

I backed up. Soaking wet and rather miserable, I left the shower, wrapped a towel around my waist, and padded toward the kitchen. An itchy feeling spread across my chest. I knew what the sting of _rejection_ felt like.

I stumbled toward the coffee maker. On the way, our landline rang.

“Hello?” I cradled the phone between my shoulder and neck.

“Hi,” said Morrigan. “I'm glad to know you're back…”

“Mm.”

“I was wondering if Kieran could stay with you next week…” she said, “he has some college interviews in the city.”

“Yeah, of course,” I mumbled.

“Great. I'll drop him off on Thursday.”

We paused—silence crackled across the phone line.

“How's that script coming?” she asked suddenly.

“It's okay,” I lied. “Nothing I can't handle.”

Little did I know, I'd be _begging_ her for help before the month was out.

“I'm _sure_ … well, I'll see you Thursday,” she concluded.

“Thanks, Morrigan… kiss Kieran for me?” I asked.

“Of course…” she laughed and hung up.

 

Anders was suddenly right next to me at the coffee maker. He was in a suit—ready for work. When I think back on it, this whole exchange was rather pitiful—him in an Armani suit, me in my _birthday_ suit.

“Are you sure you want to go in today?” I asked, turning toward him.

 “I need to catch up,” he sounded grouchy.

“Okay…” I put a hand on his shoulder, “I'll be here when you get home.”

He rolled his eyes.

“What?” I asked.

“How nice for you… that you don't have to work.”

“ _You_ don't have to either—unless you want to,” I offered.

“That is _not_ the point…” he closed his eyes like it hurt to look at me, “I'll see you tonight.”

And just like that, he left—and I stood alone in the kitchen, undressed and miserable, wishing he'd come back.

 

* * *

 

The ‘ _work thing_ ’ was not a new topic of debate. Before our trip to Rivain, I'd broached the topic of getting someone else to manage the company and doing some traveling. I asked him to come with me.

“So let's say… for the sake of argument… that someone wanted to bankroll a month-long getaway for you…” I had him in my arms at the time. We were curled under the covers, avoiding getting up for the day. “Is that something you'd be into?”

He laughed, “Are you offering?”

I kissed him playfully. “Yes… let's go away… for a month or two…”

“What would we _do_ with ourselves for a month?”

“Make love…” I kissed his neck and bit the skin. “Also _fuck_ … when we feel like it…”

He laughed.

“...lie around… read books…” I added. “Eat fancy dinners… drink a lot.”

“That sounds wonderful,” he said. “Tell me more…” he grabbed my dick and stroked it gently.

I tried to breathe through it so I could keep talking. “Well… we could go somewhere cold— _snowy_ —in the mountains…”

“Mmm?” he gripped me a little more firmly.

I gasped. “Yeah… and we'll have a fireplace…”

“You probably look amazing in firelight,” he teased.

“I _do_ , actually—it's one of my skills…” I joked. “So imagine this: we're on the floor in front of the fire, wrapped in a warm blanket.”

He made an agreeable sound and pushed his own dick into the circle of his hands. We slid together gently.

“...and we're naked, of course..”

“Oh yes, _of course_ …” he laughed and stroked a little faster.

“The warmth of the fire is heating up your skin—it's almost _too_ warm, but you don't want to back away,” I ran a palm up and down his side. “I'm lying behind you, my arm curled around your waist.” I decided to act it out, pushing him away from me and curling in behind his back.

“Mm-hmm.”

“And you grind backward into me,” I thrusted my hips forward slightly to drive the point home.

“And you're insanely hard, right?” he laughed and smiled.

“Obviously…”

I channeled all the laughter between us into the most charming smile I could muster, “and you're in a weird mood, so you decide you want me to fuck you…”

He made a face. “Very funny, Al…”

I laughed.

He kept pouting.

“Okay, so _you_ tell me what happens next...” I suggested.

He rolled over so we were face to face again. “Is that _really_ what you want?” He had become sullen.

I backed up a little. “What do you mean?”

“A little house-boyfriend who doesn't work and who lets you fuck him whenever you please?” He sounded sort of offended.

“God, _no_ … I was just trying to be funny…” I laughed nervously, “obviously I wasn't trying hard enough…”

“Because Al… if you want to change the way our sex life works... you just have to _say_ it…”

I blushed.

“But I'm _never_ going to be in a position to leave my firm for a month…” he looked like he was on the line between anger and disappointment. “My work is _really_ important to me.”

I cupped his cheek in my hand. “I know that… I was just being silly… forget I said anything.”

 

* * *

 

He'd had _that look_ this morning too. A look that said, ‘ _Al, you're **failing** me_.’ Even when he was still in my arms, it felt horrible. _Now_ it felt a thousand times worse.

I decided to call him. It was a stupid idea, but I have a horrible habit of _pushing_ when someone pulls back.

“Hi, Sweetie,” I said when he answered.

“Do you need something?” he sounded irritated.

“Only _you_ … can I please take you somewhere?” I asked. “Somewhere with a fireplace…?”

He didn't say anything.

“Just for the night,” I added. “We'll get room service and cuddle and I'll read to you…”

Normally, he _loved_ it when I read to him. I’d introduced him to a variety of novels that were all hopelessly depressing and _beautiful_. Sometimes, he would cry, which was a release since crying was normally _very_ hard for him. It was one of the most intimate things we did as a couple.

I waited.

“Or… we could go a different day…” I finally offered.

“I don't think it's a good idea,” said Anders. “I'm late for a meeting—I have to go.”

He hung up.

 

* * *

 

The rest of the day, I worked on the script, which was still a piece of shit. It _did_ help pass the time, though. The next thing I knew, I heard Anders’ keys in the lock.

I had spread out all my things on the living room coffee table. To be honest, there was debris all over the couch too—abandoned pages, crumpled rewrites, and several red pens.

When he saw me, he looked mildly amused. “Have you been sitting there all day?”

I shrugged. “Basically… I _did_ manage to put pants on, though…” I smirked and pulled on the drawstring of my joggers demonstratively.

“Did you get anything accomplished?”

“Yeah… some.” It was sort of a lie. I'd been working all day, but I hadn't made good editing choices. I might have to redo all this later.

“Did you have an okay day at work?” I asked. I crossed the room to stand with him in the kitchen.

He opened a wine bottle and pulled out _one_ large glass.

“I missed you today…” I offered.

He looked at me transiently. “I had an okay day. I got caught up on several cases…”

“So… maybe we can get in front of a fireplace sooner than you thought?” I could feel that I was pushing—it was annoying even _to_ _me_ ; I can only _imagine_ how annoying it was to him.

“Alistair…” he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “When I said I needed some space I did _not_ mean ‘take me away for a sexy weekend in the mountains.’ That is basically the _opposite_ of giving me space.”

I bit my lip. “I don't know _how_ to give you space without feeling like we're getting divorced.”

He looked at me for a beat. “We're not there yet…”

 _Yet?_ My throat felt like it was closing.

“I just wish you would talk to me about this…” I managed.

“Al,” he put his wine glass down too hard on the counter; the stem cracked, sending a shard of glass across the palm of his hand.

“Shit… fuck,” he dropped the glass and immediately put his hand into the sink. It was bleeding profusely.

I reached around him to help him get water into the wound, but that only made him angry.

“Al—leave me _alone_ ,” he yelled. He elbowed me in the ribs—hard. He nearly knocked the wind out of me. “I can take care of a _fucking_ cut on my own…”

I backed away from him and leaned against the opposing countertop. It was a passive posture, but I was actually _seething_.

“Is this how it's going to be now?” I asked. “You're going to handle everything alone?” My tone was sarcastic and snarky and _downright mean_ , if I'm honest with myself. “I thought the point of being married was to _be together_ —to _handle_ things together.

“Stop it, Al…” he warned.

“I'd just like to know…. what the _expectations_ are now…” I continued haughtily.

He leaned over the sink more, which made his hair obscure his face.

“I know that I fucked up with your dad…” I admitted, “but now you won't even talk to me, let alone explain what's going on… and don't think your little stunt last night went unnoticed…”

He glared at me.

“You came to bed dressed just to fuck with me, didn’t you?” I was getting carried away now—my face felt hot. “You knew it would _scare_ me—make me more likely to grovel… and I know you're refusing to say you love me on purpose too.” His sister’s warning was echoing in my head: ‘ _he’s dangerous—he’s manipulating you_.’

I saw his jaw flex.

“Well, Anders—I'm _begging_ ,” I said. “Tell me how I can fix this—and I will do it. I'll do anything.”

“You'll do anything _except_ the one thing I need,” he growled. “...to be left the _fuck_ alone for a while.”

“Ask me for _anything_ else,” I said.

“God damnit, Al! If you can't do _that_ then what good are your promises?” he yelled. He'd gotten the wound cleaned out and took off in the direction of the bathroom.

“Anders,” I called through the bathroom door. “I just want to _help_ you—and I want us to be normal.”

“You can't always have exactly what you want, when you want.” He opened the door and stepped so close to me that I had to back up. “I realize you think you can just _buy_ your way out of any problem…” He did an imitation of my voice that was _not_ complementary, “Have a bad day? Purchase a new wardrobe. Get your son to like you? Buy him a car. Scare _the shit_ out of your husband? Take him on vacation…”

Anders walked past me to his closet and grabbed one of my gym bags. He threw some clothes into it haphazardly. While he stomped back and forth through the room, changing his clothes and sighing, it occurred to me that this might be one of the last times I ever saw him. I didn’t know if there was any coming back from this.

“Anders… I love you… please _stop_.”

“I'm going to stay with Isabela and Fenris tonight,” he announced.

“Anders,” I chased him through the living room to the front door. “Please… I’ll sleep in Kieran’s room… just stay here.”

“I can’t,” he growled.

“ _Why_?!” I shouted.

He clenched his jaw. “Being _near_ you isn’t good for me.”

There was nothing to say to that. I dropped my head and watched him walk away.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point, I estimate this entire story will be about 50-55 chapters long. :) thanks for sticking with me.


	35. Movie Business - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The movie version of Alistair's novel goes into pre-production. It's a disaster, but at least it helps him keep his mind off of the Anders situation. 
> 
> \------------
> 
> FYI, if you haven’t read [The Proposal](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4261329), you should go read it so that the lines from the script mean more... there are some in this chapter, and lots in subsequent chapters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated M: implied sex, swearing, the usual. :)

* * *

 

Two weeks later, nothing was normal yet. Anders stayed with Isabela the entire time. He _had_ to stop home periodically, but he made it a point to do it when I wasn’t there. After the first three or four days, I basically gave up. There was nothing left to do or say.

Meanwhile, Kieran had several college interviews. So far, he'd described them as successful. He was doing very well, considering the circumstances.

Lilly was in rehab—apparently getting better every day. At least that’s what her parents communicated through their attorney. It was a bit like a macabre game of telephone. Kieran hadn’t been allowed to see her. I knew that bothered him. Visiting colleges was the best thing he could have done—it helped him focus on the future.

Simultaneously, the movie went into pre-production. The script was nearly done, despite the dialogue, which I considered a disaster. The biggest task ahead of us was casting. The first morning of screen tests, I knew I was in for a harrowing couple of weeks.

 

* * *

 

“Screen Test: Austin and Caleb—on the street in Australia,” yelled the second assistant director. He closed the slate and shouted, “Action!” To be fair, I hadn’t named the characters very creatively. It seemed so _obvious_ now—no wonder everyone kept accusing me of writing a memoir.

“Austin—I’m dying,” said the actor pretending to be Caleb. He ran toward Austin’s actor and grabbed his hands.

“What?” asked Austin.

“I’m _dying_ ,” Caleb repeated. “I came here because I couldn’t die without telling you…” He looked like he was on the verge of tears. That wasn’t right.

“This isn’t going to work…” I whispered to the director. “He’s too maudlin… Caleb is supposed to be sort of reserved…”

The director glared at me. “Alistair has some notes,” he said to the actor, whose actual name I didn’t know.

I cleared my throat. “Caleb is supposed to be a little different—he’s not _emotional_ … He’s spent the last ten years pretending he _doesn’t_ love Austin, and he hasn’t changed overnight. He’s still afraid of this whole thing—he’s _repressed_.”

Caleb’s actor nodded and blinked several times before puffing air out of his lips like a horse. Actors are like another species.

They ran the scene again—it was _sort of_ better… not much though. By the end of the day, we’d seen 15 Austin/Caleb pairs, each with its own quirks. I sat down with the casting director, Adam, and the producer, Brittany, after they’d all gone. We spread the headshots out on the table. All the Calebs in one pile and all the Austins in another.

“Well, I really liked number 7,” said Brittany. She picked up the picture of one of the more effeminate Austins.

I huffed a little. “What did you like about him?”

She looked at Adam pointedly. “He’s just very _believable_ as gay…”

I interrupted her, “Austin isn’t actually gay—he’s bi—and what exactly does _‘believable’_ mean in that context?”

She raised an eyebrow, as if _I_ was the one with the problem.

“So are you saying you want him to butch it up?” asked Adam.

“Maker… _no_ …” I squished my forehead in my palm. “I’m saying, he’s not the right choice—let’s pick someone else…” I shuffled through the rest of the pile and picked a brunette with a strong jaw and stubble. I remembered his deep baritone. “What about this guy?”

Brittany made a face, “I just can’t _see_ him with a man.”

I felt like I was in the twilight zone. Surely, everyone in the room was aware that _I_ was married to a man _right now_. A voice inside insisted maybe I _wasn’t_ married anymore—maybe the whole thing was about to come crashing down. I tried to quash it.

“Listen… Austin is just supposed to be an every-man type…” I explained. “He’s not supposed to _seem_ like anything. He’s just a person who is in love with another person and they _happen_ to be the same gender.”

“Okay…” said Adam, “maybe we should pause on the Austin scenario… who do we like for Caleb?”

All at once, we pointed to #14. He was a devastatingly attractive blonde with a deep tan and amber eyes. He was so much like Cullen it almost freaked me out—he was _perfect_.

“Well, that was easy,” laughed Brittany. “Before we get back into this Austin debate… can we talk about this one scene?” She flipped to the middle of the script and showed me a paragraph highlighted in orange.

“Which scene is that?” asked Adam. He leaned over her shoulder. “Oooh… _that_ one…”

“This whole scene…” Brittany turned the pages around so I could read them from the other side of the table. “...with the girl leaving her shoe in the car and whatnot?”

“Yeah…” I narrowed my eyes a little. This was the first party Cullen and I ever went to together. I can’t remember that girl’s real name, but I remember her shoe.

“It just doesn’t play… I mean… _why_ would Caleb ask Austin out like this? Isn’t it kind of obvious it’s a date?” scoffed Brittany.

I wanted to argue—Cullen _had_ actually done it—even a little more confusingly vaguely than Caleb did in the story. I wasn’t sure if I should argue to keep this, though. Was it important enough to draw a line in the sand?

“I guess I can think about revising it,” I said.

Everyone breathed a sigh of relief and we went back to the argument about Austin’s actor. We eventually chose a middle-of-the-road actor, who had done a pretty good job, but wasn’t as handsome as I thought Austin _should_ be.

 

* * *

 

When I got home, I was still a little upset about that scene, I realized. Shockingly, Anders was in the kitchen.

“Hey,” he said, not looking up from a stack of papers.

As I already explained, we hadn’t been _speaking,_ even when I _did_ catch him in the apartment. I was surprised he didn’t just get up and leave the room.

“Hi…” I sat down at the island across from him.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“I just agreed to rewrite one of the only true things in the whole script,” I admitted. “And… to be honest, I feel bad about it.”

“Why?” asked Anders.

I was _really_ surprised he was talking to me this long. I decided to draw it out as much as possible.

“...I just wonder how much _more_ of the novel I’m going to have to get rid of in order to make this whole thing believable,” I pushed a hand through my hair. “I feel like a sell-out already…”

Anders circled the island and sat down next to me. “You’re not a sell out.”

“There was also this _thing_ today about Austin…” I mumbled. “They wanted to pick this twink to play him… he was cute, but _still_.”

Anders suppressed a laugh. Honestly, I would have said _anything_ to get him to smile—even if it _was_ at my expense.

“Because everyone wants him to _seem_ like something in particular—” I continued. “I mean… do I _seem_ like something to you?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Do you want me? Because you _seem_ like you might…”

It was a _complete_ non sequitur; I wondered if I’d heard him right.

We hadn't made love since that night in the inn. He’d barely even _looked_ at me. I was a little scared to say yes—like this might be a _test_ I was failing—but I took a chance and nodded.

He grabbed my palm and moved it until I felt the outline of his dick through his pants. He was ridiculously hard.

“Bedroom?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Take your clothes off.”

I didn't have to be told twice. I pulled my shirt off over my head and started working on my pants. When we were both naked, he pushed me onto my knees.

 

* * *

 

Half an hour later, we were in a heap on the living room carpet.

“I love you,” I panted.

Anders looked at me for a second, but he didn’t say anything. He wiped his hand across his forehead and stood up. It was so sudden; I felt abandoned.

“I _love_ you?” I repeated.

“ _Don’t_ ,” he said.

“Sweetheart… what’s happening?” I asked.

“Nothing… I just—” he paused. “We shouldn’t have done that…”

“We shouldn’t have?” I stood up and followed him into our bathroom. “If you haven’t forgiven me, why did you want to have sex?”

I imagined the possible answers he might give me: ‘ _I have needs_ ,’ or ‘ _you’re hot, but I don’t love you anymore_.’ I shivered.

“I’m not ready to talk yet…” he said. “This was a bad idea.” He looked at me—one part anger, one part disappointment, just like before.

I knew better than to push it. Besides, I was feeling _incredibly_ vulnerable. I crossed the living room to the guest bathroom and turned on the shower.

A few minutes later, I heard the front door slam shut. He’d left me _again_.

* * *

 

I didn’t know what to do with myself—I felt like I’d never be whole again. I grabbed my gym stuff and took off toward my squash club. I haven’t talked about my club much, but it’s a really wonderful place—it has indoor squash courts, clay courts for tennis outside, a huge weight training area, and a fully functional spa. It’s my favorite place on earth. Strangely enough, Anders has never liked it.

When we were new, I took him there on a date. That morning, we woke up in my apartment. We hadn't slept together yet, but we _had_ slept next to each other.

“Morning,” he said sleepily. He hadn't opened his eyes yet, but he was smiling.

“Morning,” I echoed. I rolled into his chest and kissed him. We were new enough that I still worried about things like morning breath, so I didn't part my lips, although I wanted to.

“So… We're going to this gym place today, right?” he asked. He blinked a few times.

I kissed a line from the left edge of his jaw to his clavicle. “It's not a _gym,_ ” I explained. “It's a club…”

“Do people go there to sweat?” he asked.

“Yes…” I equivocated, “but _still…_ Don't call it a gym when we get there.” I laughed.

The fabric of his t-shirt was thin, but I wished it wasn't there. I was ready to _be_ with him, but I cared about him enough that I was willing to wait. It hadn't stopped me from going to bed shirtless, though. At the club today, I planned to have as little clothing as possible between us.

 

Anders was not very strong. I learned this in the free weight area. He was a good sport, though. He smiled and laughed while I struggled to squat and bench press. On the squash court, he was better.

“You have really impressive endurance,” I panted. Sweat was beading across his brow, but he wasn't nearly as tired as I was.

“You're not the first person to tell me that,” he joked. His left eyebrow rose suggestively.

I wished he hadn't done that—I was afraid I was going to suddenly have an obvious erection. I didn't dare look down; I shifted my weight uncomfortably and grabbed my racket.

“I think I'm ready to hit the steam room… want to join me?” I asked.

“Is that a euphemism?” 

“Only if you want it to be,” I laughed. In truth, I'd already paid to have exclusive use of the entire spa area for the day. If we wanted to fuck in there, no one would ever know, but I doubted it was heading in that direction.

I clapped Anders on the back. His shirt was clinging to him in a way I was sure was uncomfortable. I wondered why he didn't take it off. I hadn't worn a shirt since the beginning of our match.

“I'm just going to rinse, and then I'll be right in,” I said, grabbing a towel. The bathroom was beautifully appointed. They even had robes soaked in lavender essential oils available at all hours of the day.

In the shower, I tried to keep myself from picturing Anders in the steam room waiting for me—hair slicked against his neck, condensation running down the lines of his chest.

I shivered.

 

Once I opened the steam room door, I couldn't see an inch.

“Anders?” I called tentatively.

“I'm here,” he was just to my left, leaning against the cool slate walls.

I climbed onto the second step, where he was sitting, and sat so close to him I was almost in his lap.

“Have you had a good day?” I asked. I put one of my hands on the upper part of his thigh and rubbed it. I was testing the waters, truthfully—trying to ascertain if _this_ was the day that we might do... _something_. He didn't pull away. In fact, he put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me closer.

“It's been interesting,” he answered. “Be _honest_ … How often do you bring people on this date?”

“What?” My hand on his leg retracted instinctively.

“Seriously…” he laughed, “‘ _you have such good endurance_ ,’ and ‘ _let's go into this deserted steam room’_? How many other people have been me?”

I swallowed. _None_. I wasn't sure he would believe me, but I said it anyway. “I haven't dated anyone else as an adult…” I explained.

He didn't say anything.

“Well… unless you count the guy from the book… but _I_ don't… We could never go anywhere we might be recognized,” I explained.

Anders was suddenly staring at me. I could make out his face vaguely in the steam. “Is that true?”

I nodded.

“But weren’t you married?” he asked.

“Yeah… but my ex wasn’t really a squash fan… and she couldn’t have come in here anyway…” It was the _men’s_ locker room, after all—a useless distinction, but still.

“Will you take me home?” he asked suddenly.

I stopped moving. “Really?”

“Yeah…” He kissed me. “I just want to be curled up in those 1000 thread count sheets… With _you_.”

I had a whole day of activities still planned, but I couldn't think of anything I wanted more than to be in bed with Anders… maybe with takeout…

* * *

 

On the way to my club on that day—after Anders had confusingly fucked me and left—I felt _hollow_. It wasn’t as if Anders went with me a lot, but he came _sometimes_ now—if only just to harass me about the dates I probably had in that steam room. He never gave up the idea that he was only the latest in a long string of boyfriends I’d charmed in that hazy humidity. Sometimes we liked to play act it—remembering those early months together.

I swallowed hard and grit my teeth. Today, I wasn’t going to go _near_ that stupid spa. I was going to lift some heavy shit and try to forget that the best relationship in my life was falling apart.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry... they're not going to be fighting forever. They just need to go through this so they are strong enough to face what's coming... together. :)


	36. Movie Business - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair finally breaks down and asks Morrigan for help with the script. She proves helpful in more ways than he imagined. 
> 
> Anders and Alistair finally bury the hatchet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated T: nothing racy... maybe a couple expletives. :)

* * *

 

The next day, I woke up in bed alone—like I _always_ did now. I’d adapted and begun sleeping in the exact middle of the king-sized mattress about a week ago.

I dragged myself into the kitchen and began my day. I needed to do about a million things, but I missed Anders so much it hurt. I wasn't sure what to do. That's when my phone chirped.

 **Morrigan** : how's that script?

 **Alistair** : horrendous

 **Morrigan** : I knew it.

 **Alistair** : did you text me just to gloat? Or are you going to _help_ me?

 **Morrigan** : what do you need?

 **Alistair** : a fresh set of eyes… I've lost perspective.

 **Morrigan** : meet for lunch?

 **Alistair** : okay.

I arranged the time and location and set about getting ready. By the time I arrived at the restaurant, script in hand, Morrigan was already sitting at a table near the window.

“Hi,” she said. She dropped her sunglasses on the table and smiled up at me.

“Hi… thank you _so_ much for helping me with this…” I mumbled. I was acutely aware that there were some reporters outside on the sidewalk. I shielded the side of my face, just in case.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“No… I just… I’m a little _on edge_ since all this stuff about Anders’ family came out…” I explained.

The look she gave me told me she’d seen it. “How is he?”

“I don’t know, to be honest,” I sighed and rested my head in my hand.

“Kieran told me you weren’t speaking…” she admitted.

I should have known. I’d vaguely pretended that Anders was away on some kind of extended business trip when Kieran stayed with me last week, but I knew it was thin, even then.

“So what actually _happened_ at his parents’ house, Al?” she asked.

I could see already that we weren’t going to get much done on the script, but this seemed _significantly_ more important anyway. I knew from reading some of Morrigan’s short stories that she was an excellent judge of human behavior. Have I mentioned her short stories yet? Probably not. Bringing them up only makes my own work seem juvenile and amateurish. She is a _masterful_ writer—her prose is succinct and poignant. It makes me want to give up writing all together.

“His parents are the most horrible people I’ve ever met in my life,” I sighed. “They’re not just _bad_ —they’re _defective_. Genetically? Psychologically?”

She rolled her eyes. She thought I was exaggerating. “What does all that _hyperbole_ mean?”

“They hate him—they think he’s some kind of an abomination,” I explained. “They hate _me_ by extension. At first, I wasn’t sure how to react so I sort of said _nothing_ … and then I overcorrected and ended up pushing his father against a wall and threatening him.”

She blinked.

“I _know_ … it was incredibly stupid…” I groaned.

“So you scared him.”

I nodded. “Yes… I scared the shit out of him. The whole thing was probably incredibly triggering and now he can barely even look at me.”

We stared at each other in silence for a minute.

“And the weirdest thing is, Morrigan… I’m not usually like that _at all_ …” I scrunched up my face, trying to figure out the right words to use in order to explain what I meant. “I’m usually so gentle… I think about all the implications of my actions before committing… I try to be _fair_ …”

“—but when you saw them attacking your husband, you snapped?” she finished the thought for me.

I nodded miserably.

“You need to tell Anders that,” she said.

“I tried.”

“ _How_?”

I wasn’t necessarily thrilled about telling her all the passive-aggressive things I said to Anders during our last fight… I was even _less_ excited to explain the random sex we had last night that ended in my eventual abandonment—but I told her: I told her every _stupid_ detail. It could have felt weird, but it didn’t. She was an excellent listener.

“I think there’s something else going on here, Al,” she said eventually.

“What?”

“I think Anders is upset about something else… I think that thing his sister said about a secret is suspicious, and I think you need to ask him what it is.” She pursed her lips together and squinted at me.

“How would I go about doing that?” I asked.

“Go to Isabela’s and knock on the door,” she rolled her eyes.

At this point, we’d finished eating and I’d already paid the check.

“I’ll take this with me,” she picked up the script. We hadn’t even opened it. “I’ll send you my revisions by the end of the weekend.”

“Thanks, Morrigan,” I hugged her. “You’re the best…”

And she really _was_ too. I could never have predicted that our relationship would become so central to my life, but the more time that passed, the closer we became.

 

* * *

 

Feeling bolstered, I headed for Isabela’s apartment.

“Yes?” she said when she opened the door.

“Hi…” I looked down at my feet, “is Anders here?”

She eyed me skeptically. “Yes… but _why_ should I let you in?”

“Because I love him and I'm sorry for everything... and I _need_ to see him… with enough intensity that it feels like my life depends on it.”

She rolled her eyes and opened the door. Anders was standing right behind her.

“Hi…” he whispered.

The minute I saw him, I wanted to kiss him. Even more than that, I wanted to wrap him in a blanket with me and emerge when all this was over.

“Can we talk?” I asked.

He nodded. “Thanks, Isabela…” he smiled to her and stepped out into the hallway with me.

“Should we go somewhere?” I asked.

“Let's take a walk…” he suggested.

 

* * *

 

Isabela’s apartment overlooks the park. The whole thing has a walking trail around its perimeter, and even though it was winter, lots of people were out that afternoon.

“So… why did you come here?” he asked.

We’d found a comfortable walking rhythm—side by side, hands in our pockets.

“Because I love you,” I answered softly.

He laughed. I did too.

“Yeah… it’s sappy and stupid… love is for the naive and the uneducated…” I cleared my throat. “But it doesn’t change the fact that it’s true…”

He pulled the corner of his mouth up. It _could_ have been a smile, but it wasn’t. It smacked of _condolence_ —like we were doomed, trying to find some relief before our inevitable demise.

“What are we going to do with ourselves?” I asked. I was laughing again.

“I have no idea,” he shook his head and blinked a few times. His breath drifted up as smoke between us. “I’m sorry about yesterday.”

“Me too…” I shrugged. “I went to the club last night and it was _terrible_ …”

He laughed. “I’ve been trying to tell you... that _gym_ is an awful place.”

I smiled. I loved talking to him like this—like everything was normal—but it wasn’t very productive.

“So…” I turned toward him and wrapped a mittened-hand around his elbow to pull him back. “Please come home?”

He sighed.

“Please, Anders…” I repeated. “Please, please, _please_ come home. All the plants are going to die…”

“Are you using them as _hostages_?” he raised an eyebrow.

“Only because you took Adrian with you…” I joked.

He feigned shock, “Don’t bring our cat into this.”

I put my other hand on his hip. We were kind of in the way—standing in the middle of the snowy walking path—but I didn’t care. I wanted to make a _show_ of this apology—to prove how sorry I really was.

“I love you. I’m so sorry for everything—I didn’t mean to scare you,” I explained. “...obviously… I just freaked out… the whole weekend was sort of a lot for me.”

“What does that mean?” his eyes narrowed.

“The whole thing… going all the way out there… meeting your family… that weird sex…”

He winked. “I thought you were _pretty satisfied_ after that…”

“I was,” I laughed again, but it faded quickly. “I just didn’t know what you’d been through, Sweetie…”

He nodded.

“...and your sister said something that _completely_ freaked me out, to be honest…”

He stiffened away from me.

“She implied that you have a secret—something dark…” I admitted.

He instantly started to walk—fast. I trotted to catch him.

“I’m sure it was nothing… but I should have told you earlier because it freaked me out and I didn’t know how to deal with it—”

“I can’t do this right now,” he said suddenly.

“What?”

“I need to go… I’ll call you later.” He put distance between us with long strides.

“Are you coming home?”

He stopped walking and looked at me. “I don’t know.”

 

* * *

 

In the middle of the night, I blinked into darkness and wondered what was going on. The bed had shifted under me, disrupting a miserable, dreamless sleep. Then his arm was around me.

“Hey,” whispered Anders. “Are you up?”

“Yeah,” I yawned. I turned over to face him. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

He nodded. “I’m okay… and I’m _sorry_.” He kissed me gently.

My heart sped up.

“And I _miss_ you,” he added. “I wanted to come back as soon as I left… but I was scared.”

“What were you scared of?”

“ _You_ ,” he whispered.

That’s what I was afraid of—hell, I’d scared _myself_. I didn’t know how to apologize enough.

“What do you need from me?” I asked.

“I don’t know, Love…”

I wrapped my arms around his back and held him flush against my chest. “When you know… you can tell me.”

“I know I can,” he whispered.

* * *

 


	37. Movie Business - Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The movie goes into production. Kieran gets accepted to college. Anders' secret is **finally** revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated M: crime, painful memories, danger

* * *

The next few weeks passed _strangely_. Casting wrapped up and I spent most of my time working with the writing team. The major complaint I kept hearing was about ‘believability.’

“ _Alistair_ ,” Brittany groaned, “who _talks_ like this?” She picked up the script and read with highly dramatized diction:

_“Dear Caleb… I almost texted you today—it would have said: ‘I had a dream that I drove your jeep over a median. Not accidentally—not even vindictively… but as a self-aggrandizing display of recklessness.”_

“ _I_ do,” I answered. (That was an _actual line_ from my journal.)

She rolled her eyes. “Well not everyone is a writer, Al… especially not _Austin_!”

I shrugged. I was learning to pick my battles with her. Despite our friction, she was actually an excellent producer. She kept everyone on a strict schedule and made sure that my suggestions were heard—even if they _were_ ultimately ignored.

“Let’s just try to make it a little more _accessible_?” she suggested.

I looked down at my watch. It was almost ten o’clock at night. “I need to get going,” I said.

“Me too…” she called to everyone else to wrap up and I gathered my things.

 

* * *

 

On the way home, Kieran called me.

“Hey Dad?”

“Hi, Kieran,” I smiled even though he couldn’t see me. “How are you?”

“I’m fine… I just—” he cut himself off.

I felt my brow furrow, “Are you _okay_?”

“Yeah… I’m definitely— _totally_ —okay…” he sounded excited, actually. “I just wanted to tell you—I got an offer of early acceptance to Genitivi… in the music department…”

“Maker, Kieran,” I was blushing, “You did? That’s fantastic.”

“Yeah… I mean… they’re rated top-10 for their strings program… so I didn’t think I had a shot, really…” he mumbled. “...but they want _me_ and I have two weeks to respond.”

“That’s amazing! So are you going to take it?” I asked.

“Well…” he cleared his throat, “Yeah… I _think_ I am…”

Something about his tone was off. “So… what’s the problem?”

“Well… they accepted me… but I don’t really have the money to go… they didn’t offer me a scholarship or anything…” he trailed off.

“Holy shit, Kieran,” I had a terrible habit of swearing with him—it’s not a good thing to do with your kids…it rubs off on them... “You don’t think I’d let you turn that down over _money_ do you?”

He laughed nervously.

“Kieran… if you wanted me to, I’d donate enough money for them to build you your own wing…”

We both laughed.

“Thanks, Dad…” he sighed, “I guess I’ll send you over a copy of the paperwork?”

“Absolutely,” I paused, “...and Kieran? I’m so _proud_ of you.”

 

* * *

 

When I got home that night, Anders was opening a variety of Chinese food boxes on the counter.

“Did you talk to Kieran?” he asked. His smirk told me _he_ had.

“Yeah… I did…”

He smiled—one of the first _genuine_ smiles I’d seen on him in a month.

“Did you tell him to call me?” I asked.

He nodded. “He was so nervous…”

“Why?”

“He didn’t want you to think you had to _buy_ him happiness,” explained Anders.

I shook my head. “I would never have thought that.”

“I know—that’s what I told him.”

 

We were starting to find a rhythm, although life wasn’t normal yet. By shifting our focus to what was important externally—work, the movie, Kieran—we were starting to make headway. There were just a few topics we couldn’t yet broach. Namely, what the _hell_ Alice had meant when she implied there was a family secret.

That night, Anders poured himself into bed next to me and turned on the news. There were a few stories about politics—the new so-called ‘president’ was tweeting about something—and then there was a piece that changed _everything_.

“The Theirin family coming under fire again…” said a newscaster. She had such an even voice, I almost didn’t hear my own name in the stream of words.

Anders moved to turn off the TV, but I stopped him. “Wait… I think she’s talking about us…”

I wrestled the remote away from him and turned up the volume.

“...reports are coming in now that Anders Theirin—husband of Alistair Theirin, heir to the Theirin fortune and media tycoon—was involved in a scandal as a university student,” she looked right into the camera, “if you have children at home, you may want to have them leave the room—the images you’re about to see may be disturbing.”

I blinked. I couldn’t even form words. Anders looked pale.

“Anders Theirin—then Erik Frey—was apparently involved in a radical student organization,” she continued.

I watched with rapt attention as pictures of rallies and riots splashed across the screen. Eventually, the _piece de resistance_ emerged: a looping video of Anders in handcuffs. His hair was longer—it fell messily over his face as he struggled. Two uniformed officers in riot gear had his hands behind his back. He was bent into a completely unnatural shape as they struck him repeatedly with clubs.

They allowed the the clip to stay on the screen for an unbelievably long time—longer than anything I’d seen in ages—and then it changed: a campus building on _fire_ —apparently blown up.

“Oh my _god_ …” I breathed.

Anders had drawn his knees up to his chest and was leaning against the headboard behind us. His eyes were closed.

“Anders?” I turned the volume way down on the TV, but in my periphery I could see a picture of him again—his face was covered in soot and his mouth was open in an apparent scream.

“Sweetheart?” I got between him and the TV and leaned in. “What is going on?”

He bit his lip. “I need to get out of here…”

“What?”

“This… you can’t be _near_ this…” he sputtered. He was suddenly standing, pacing across the carpet, “I never wanted this to blow back on you…”

I know I _must_ have been afraid, but I didn’t feel it then. All I knew was that Anders was in trouble—I wanted to protect him.

“This place is going to be crawling with reporters… I’ve got to get out of here…” he grabbed a suitcase from the closet.

I wasn’t about to let him pack in front of me and run away _again_. “ _Stop_.”

He dropped the bag and looked at me.

“We can _go_ —” I crossed to him and put a hand around the back of his neck. “But we’re going together…”

I’m not sure why he didn’t argue. He usually would have. Maybe the whole thing was too overwhelming or he couldn’t think of the right way to get rid of me… but I really _hope_ that he wanted to be with me as much as I wanted to be with him.

 

* * *

 

Several hours later, we parked a non-descript rental car outside of a remote ski lodge in the Hinterlands. It was a place where no one was likely to recognize us and discretion could be _bought_. The flight had been much of the same—curling into each other, hiding in the fabric of each other’s coats.

“I love you,” I whispered when we were finally settled into our room. It was on the 5th floor overlooking the slopes. It had a fireplace.

“I love you too,” said Anders. “I need to tell you what happened.”

We wrapped ourselves in a thick blanket in front of the hearth. The whole room glowed in variable light. Anders pillowed his head on his arm and faced me.

“When I got to college, I was really angry,” he began.

I could understand that—he’d just run away from home and spent a year living in a dive bar with a bunch of other disenfranchised pseudo-adolescents.

“I fell in with other students who were angry too… we formed an alliance of sorts…”

I rubbed my hand up and down his flank. The strange thing about all of this is that I _still_ wasn’t scared. I felt like I could handle _anything_ he told me.

“And at first it was good—we wrote strongly worded letters and had peaceful protests…” he explained. “My whole freshman and sophomore years we got together every week and made plans to stage demonstrations…”

I nodded.

“...when I was a junior… that’s when everything changed. This guy Daniel took over the group… he was obsessed with what he would call ‘justice’...” Anders rolled his eyes. “At the time, I agreed with him—but it was really more like vengeance. The line is so blurry.

“He worked everyone up into a frenzy—got everyone to really start _hating_ the establishment. We saw the flaws in every class and every professor. But our _least_ favorite was the administration—they seemed to be rife with corruption. Daniel hatched a plan—to send a message.”

The next few sentences of explanation washed over me. I specifically try _not_ to remember the words he used _even now_ , but suffice it to say, they blew up the Dean’s office. Anders was in so far over his head, he was arrested. Eventually, Daniel was charged with the crime and Anders was released in exchange for his testimony against him. That’s what made him want to be a lawyer—and what finally prompted him to _legally_ change his name.

When he was done talking, I rolled him onto his back and hovered over him.

“That’s a lot to take in, huh?” he said sadly.

“Yeah… but at least you’re okay,” I said.

He squinted at me. “That’s it? ‘ _At least I’m okay’_?”

“Yeah,” I bit my lip. “I love you…”

“Did you see those cops?” he asked.

I nodded—that image is _still_ etched into the recesses of my mind, decades later.

“They beat the shit out of me,” he explained.

How ironic that he would eventually love a man who beat him and then another who threatened people. My shame felt like a noose.

“How did you get away?” I asked.

“Hawke…” he breathed.

I squinted. “I thought you met in law school?”

“We kind of did… but he was two years ahead of me... he was already a second year when I was arrested. He worked to get me released—it was part of a humanitarian league of students and professors.”  He swallowed audibly. “We fell in love while he was helping get me out of jail…”

I hated hearing this. Jealousy notwithstanding, it made Garrett’s betrayal seem even worse. It just proved how sick he was, in my opinion. I still wonder what it was like for him and Cullen—how that _worked_. In so many ways, they were the _same_.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you—I didn’t think it would ever come out,” he closed his eyes. “The whole record was supposed to be sealed—it was part of my plea agreement.”

“Then how did it get out?” I asked.

He laughed bitterly, “my _fucking_ family… they probably sold the story to the tabloids…”

“How did they know?”

“When I was rotting in jail that first night—beaten within an inch of my life—I called my mother.”

My heart sank.

“She wouldn’t come get me—wouldn’t even _speak_ to me… she said she’d tried to take care of me, but some children are just ‘defective’—that’s the exact word she used.”

I gasped. That was how _I’d_ described the family to Morrigan.

“I don't know what to say,” I admitted.

“Neither do I,” he shrugged.

“Then don’t say anything… just stay here… with me.”

Although we were no closer to a solution to our predicament, we _were_ together. And for the first time in ages, we were being candid with each other. A lot of people think fidelity is the most important feature of a relationship—or trust or mutual understanding or _whatever_ … but _I_ think it’s _transparency_. Ironically, I have a huge fear of emotional exposure—so does Anders. So through the years, as we peeled the layers of pretense off, we started to see each other for what we are: two very flawed, very damaged, very hopeful misfits, who only work _together_.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daniel (very roughly) means Justice... or Righteousness of God... variety of pseudo-religious things... but Justice in this scenario... :)


	38. Movie Business - Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair absorbs the gravity of Anders' confession. He takes an old piece of advice from Cullen to heart and gets some help from Morrigan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated T: nothing crazy, wrapping up all the sadness and we're onto some good stuff. :) 
> 
> A huge thank you to [Aurlana](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurlana/pseuds/Aurlana) for all her help on this one thematically. :) I really appreciate the assist.

* * *

 

Cullen could calm me down like no other. Although I usually talk about him like he’s a sociopath, I think he really _did_ care about me on some level… and it came out when he knew I needed him.

 

**5 years ago**

“I can’t sleep,” I announced. It was almost three in the morning.

What?” He growled at me and rolled over.

“I am too stressed—I feel like every molecule in my body is vibrating at a different frequency,” I grabbed my chest with my fingertips.

We were staying in a hotel in the southern Free Marches at the time. It was summer. The last three days had been as close to perfect as they ever were for us—we’d made love, gone to museums, and talked about politics. I _should_ have been happy, but I wasn’t.

“Just breathe,” he coached.

“I’m trying…” I pinched my eyes shut. _Everything_ hurt. “If it were that simple, I would have just _done_ that.”

“I know…” he rolled toward me and propped his head up. “What are you _actually_ stressed about?”

“I don’t know,” I threw a pillow over my face dramatically.

He laughed and pulled the pillow back. He leaned into my field of vision. “I think you’re letting yourself get freaked out about things that haven’t even happened yet…”

I squinted.

“...you’re so afraid that everything is going to _‘fall apart_ ’ in the future, or that the past will catch up with you, that you can’t enjoy the present,” he concluded.

He was right. Anxiety is _always_ about the future or the past; isn’t it? Nevertheless, I turned over and looked at him.

“I guess… It’s just—this _hurts_ ,” I shrugged against a down pillow.

He frowned, but it was a sort of a daring expression. “I know it does… but you’re going to get through this—you’re very _tough_ , actually. The toughest, most clever person I know. I _admire_ that.”

I remember that as one of the _few_ times that Cullen complimented me, but also as one of the _many_ times he helped me without realizing it. I took that idea of toughness to heart. Every time Anders ran out on me that year, I thought of it. Every time I thought I was going to jump out of my skin—I channeled _admirable toughness_.

_Thanks, Cullen._

 

* * *

 

So when Anders was completely losing his shit on the carpet of that lovely little ski lodge; utterly horrified at the prospect of being outed as accomplice to some kind of terrorist—I knew what to say.

“Sweetheart,” I put a hand on his shoulder. “There is no way to predict what is going to come of this…”

He shuddered.

“—but I know that we’re going to get through it. Especially _you_ —you’re so tough.”

Toughness may not seem like a compliment, but it _was_ to me all those years ago, and it _certainly_ was to Anders. He’d survived so much in his life. He cultivated mental toughness with every one of his actions. Not that I pretend to know what it was like to be physically threatened and beaten by a partner or to have parents as terrible as his, but I know what _pain_ is—and being tough in the midst of pain is Anders’ specialty.

I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating—Anders is my favorite person alive. Despite every mistake he’s made—every terrible thing he’s ever done—he’s the _best_ person I know. And if you don’t see why yet… you will. _Just wait._

“Well, what are we going to do?” he asked me.

I smirked. “Right _now_? We’re going to lie here in front of this beautiful fire…” I kissed him. “Probably fuck…”

He laughed meagerly.

“...and then we’re going to go skiing tomorrow… and let the chips fall. What _else_ can we do?” I asked.

He didn’t say anything.

“I mean… Anders… no one can really hurt you—you were never even charged, were you?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“Then you’re not in any _actual_ danger…”

He tried to interrupt me, but I kept talking.

“—and neither am I, so you can stop worrying.” I smiled. “Besides, I can take care of myself— _I’m_ pretty tough too.”

He bit his bottom lip. “I guess I can’t argue with that.”

“What?” I feigned disbelief. “You can’t _argue_? Doesn’t this mean you have to turn in your license to the bar association?”

He laughed—a _real_ laugh; complete with an actual smile.

“That’s better…” I smiled.

“Yeah, yeah… I guess I’m not going to die _right this second_ …” he groused.

           

* * *

 

That whole weekend, we reminded ourselves that mental toughness is a practice—not a fixed point. Eventually, we had to get back to the city, though. And it was more difficult there.

 **Morrigan** : I have your script… where are you? I’m outside your building…

 **Alistair** : sorry… we had to get away…

I assumed she’d already heard—she was quite savvy.

 **Morrigan** : well, your whole block is crawling with reporters

 **Alistair** : maybe we should meet at your place?

 **Morrigan** : okay… I’ll just drive half an hour back home after coming all the way out here. _Perfect._

I laughed. I knew the face she was probably making.

 **Alistair** : thanks… sorry about all this.

 **Morrigan** : it’s fine. Don’t keep me waiting too long—I have _actual_ work to do today.

 

* * *

 

“We need to go to Morrigan’s,” I announced.

Anders looked up at me with passing interest. I guessed that he’d rather go there than to our house.

Kieran met us in the driveway. He pulled in just behind us.

“So you’re driving again?” asked Anders. He smiled and tapped the hood of Kieran’s car.

Kieran and I gasped in unison.

“Sweetie—be _nice_ to her… she’s delicate…” I rubbed my palm along the edge of the frame.

Anders rolled his eyes.

“Yeah… I’m driving around again—at slower speeds,” admitted Kieran. “How are you guys?” He looked worried.

I shrugged. “We’re working on being okay—a little more every day.”

Anders smiled at me.

“I got my confirmation paperwork today, Dad.” Kieran produced a glossy magazine and a thick packet of papers from his passenger seat. “There is a ton of stuff to fill out… what kind of roommate I might want…”

We all walked toward the door. “What kind of roommate _do_ you want?”

“A neat one,” he laughed.

Anders patted him on the back, “I wanted that too… it just doesn’t seem to be in the cards…” he sighed at me.

 

“You’re finally here?” Morrigan raised an eyebrow at me disapprovingly in the kitchen.

“Yeah… sorry,” I coughed.

“I went through the whole thing and you were right—it was _shit_ ,” she said. “Thank the Maker you have me around…”

Everyone laughed at my expense—at least _some_ things never change. She motioned for me to sit at the table next to her. Kieran and Anders sat across from us and peered over at the script upside down. It was covered in red ink at this point.

“So, the biggest problem is that you’re screwing up the timeline,” said Morrigan. “All of this time-jumping is making it really hard to understand what is happening when.”

I brushed a hand through my hair. She was right.

“But… I think if you take this entire scene,” she pointed to a circled chunk of text, “and move it back to the end of this section,” she flipped through the pages haphazardly, “it might actually work…”

Although she wasn’t happy about the organization, she actually _liked_ my words. 20-year-old me was beaming with pride somewhere in my subconscious.

 

* * *

 

Two hours later, I stood. “All right, Morrigan, I have to get home.”

Anders made a nervous expression.

“It’s okay, Sweetie,” I hugged him. “Everything’s going to be fine— _toughness_ , remember?”

He nodded.

Morrigan put her hands on Anders’ shoulders. “You’re the best person he knows… he’s not going to let anything happen to you.” She was smirking.

“Yeah, yeah… I’ve heard that one…” Anders laughed and hugged her.

“Morrigan—thank you again for all the help,” I peered around the corner. “Also, don’t tell Kieran… but I’m going to cry when he goes to college.”

“Yeah… I think he could have guessed that…” She rolled her eyes.

 

* * *

 

We drove home in comfortable silence. Anders almost fell asleep at one point—I could tell because of how his breathing sounded—but we pulled into our garage before he could really settle in. One unfortunate thing I may not have mentioned is the structure of our building: although we have covered parking, there isn’t an elevator from the parking level to our apartment. We have to take a short ride (or the stairs) to the lobby level and then switch elevators. On this particular day, that proved especially troublesome.

“Erik!” shouted a boisterous reporter, “Any plans to blow up the building?”

Anders shrunk into my shadow.

“Sources have confirmed that your conspirators are still rotting in jail based on your testimony!” shouted another, “Care to comment?!”

There were only forty feet between us and the elevators. We just had to hold it together.

“Alistair!” A dark-haired woman jumped directly in my path. “How do you feel now that you’re permanently tied to a murderer?”

_That was it._

“Excuse me,” I stopped dead in the middle of the lobby. Anders bumped into my back as reporters circled around us. “I’d like to set the record straight.”

Anders fiddled with the hem of my shirt. I knew it meant, ‘ _stop talking_!’

“Anders and I have been hounded by the press for weeks now—it’s gotten absolutely ridiculous… and we’re done,” I said definitely.

It didn’t do any good. Everyone just wanted to get _around_ me to push microphones in his face. That’s when he did something that changed everything—the entire course of our lives, really.

He stepped out from behind me and raised a palm to the crowd. “I realize that everyone thinks this story is sensational and all of you are trying to make your careers... “ he cleared his throat. “...but this is a _tragedy_ that I’ve worked very hard to forget.”

Surprisingly, no one tried to interrupt him—even _me_.

“When I discovered what Daniel’s plans were, I didn’t try to stop him—my devotion to the cause…” he paused. I wondered if he was thinking, ‘ _and to him_ ’. “—was unflappable.”

The group clicked and scribbled and tapped.

“—but I am haunted by the destruction that we caused. That’s something I have to live with. If I had it to do again, I would do things differently, but we’re linear beings. I can’t go back. Now, if you’d like to hear every sordid detail, I’m sure there are people you can call—but you’ll never learn anything new… you’ll only dredge up pain for the people affected by this. And I’m done talking.”

The group of reporters exploded into a cacophony of follow up questions, of course. I can’t blame them—that’s what they _do_. But Anders didn’t say anything. He turned and cut a swath through the sea of gesticulation and noise.

As I followed him to the elevators, it occurred to me that I’d never been so proud.

 

* * *

 

Upstairs, we shed layers of outerwear and eventually poured ourselves into bed.

“I wish we had a fireplace,” he said.

I smiled, “Me too.” We were both staring up at the ceiling, not looking at each other, but it was the closest I’d felt to him in ages. “Maybe we should move.”

I could see him smile in my periphery. “Where?”

“To the country… we could get a midcentury modern with a woodstove,” I suggested.

“That would be beautiful… could we renovate the bathroom to have a tub like that one in Rivain?” he asked.

“Yup. It’s at the top of my list.”

We were quiet for a while—just breathing and thinking. I was imagining birch cabinets and wide-plank hardwood floors.

“I think we need to go to therapy,” he said suddenly.

That made me roll my head toward him. “What?”

He smiled gently, “Not because we’re in trouble—because we’re _not_ … for the first time in ages… and I want to stay that way…”

I relaxed a little. “Okay. Set it up and I’ll go.”

 

* * *

 

 


	39. Movie Business - Part 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is absolute happiness... and after what these two have been through... they deserve it. 
> 
> Alistair and Morrigan bring Kieran to college. The movie premiers. Anders and Alistair are rockstars on the red carpet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated M: some implied sexuality. Mostly, though, this chapter is pure fluff and light.

* * *

**Three Months Later**

 

Eventually, the news cycle died down about Anders. It wasn’t before we saw his mother on the news talking about what a _horrible_ child he was. Luckily, most people in our sphere didn’t care—they _knew_ Anders. No one who _knew_ him could disparage his character. I also made sure people who didn’t know him couldn’t speculate about his involvement in the bombing—I printed articles about Daniel and his plans for the bombing itself. I knew we didn’t _have to_ explain ourselves, but I did it for Anders—I _wanted_ to.

Our therapy was going well too. I’ll tell you about that another time. For now, suffice it to say that each session was _rough_ , but we were learning to communicate in a way I never have with another person. Those early therapy sessions taught us how to be the couple we are today: a _solid_ one.

While we were working on ourselves and fending off the media, the movie finally wrapped. We waited while the post-production crew turned it into something barely recognizable. At the same time, Kieran left for college. Morrigan and I _both_ cried when we dropped him off, but she still won’t admit it.

 

* * *

 

“Well, I guess that’s everything,” said Kieran. He wiped his forehead and sighed at his dorm room.

“Yup,” I smiled at him. We’d spent all morning moving him in—up _six_ flights of stairs. His roommate had yet to appear.

“Do you need anything else, Kieran?” asked Morrigan. She wasn’t even sweating—sometimes, I don’t think she’s human.

“I don’t think so,” he bit his lip and looked around. On that particular day, he seemed more like a kid than he had in a year. I think the adversity of moving out was regressing him.

“Do you want to get lunch before we go?” I asked. I wanted one more chance to put him into my car and drive him around. I wanted to buy him lunch and grouch at him for drinking too much soda.

But he declined, “I think I’d rather stick around so I’m here when my roommate arrives.”

Morrigan and I nodded.

“Okay,” Morrigan pulled him into a cursory hug. “Call me if you need anything. I can get back up here in under three hours.” She flashed me a smile, “...and if Al drives, we’ll be here in two.”

Kieran smiled and hugged her. He looked at me over the top of her head.

When they separated, Morrigan wiped her eyes and pretended to cough. “Allergies…” she explained lamely.

As I moved to open the door, the knob turned in my hand and in spilled a slender boy with jet black hair and pale skin. He was followed closely by two nervous-looking women. One had his same hair and skin, the other was tan and pleasantly heavy-set.

“Hi,” his eyes lit up when he saw all of us standing there. “I’m Cullen,” he said.

I blinked. “What?”

“I’m Cullen?” the boy shrugged. “You know… like that commander...?”

 _Lots_ of little boys are named Cullen—it’s historical—but I’m still not used to meeting them.

I laughed. “Yeah… I know…” Instead of introducing myself, I stepped back and gestured to Kieran. “This is my son, Kieran—you must be the fabled roommate?” I smiled. “He’s really hoping you’re neat.”

Kieran blushed and rolled his eyes. “Hi, I’m Kieran… don’t mind my dad…” he took the kid’s hand and shook it. “I can help you set up your stuff if you want.”

The thin woman shook my hand, “Is this as nerve-wracking for you as it is for us?”

I nodded. “ _Terrifying_.”

The heavier woman laughed, “They’re going to be fine…” she wrapped an arm around the thin woman’s waist and kissed her cheek. I wished Anders was here so I could make a big show of being ‘ _in her community,_ ’ but that was really just self-aggrandizement, and not anything actually helpful. Looking back, it’s probably better that he wasn’t there.

During the time I’d been talking to young-Cullen’s moms, the boys managed to get almost completely settled.

“Okay, well, we have an orientation in a few minutes,” mumbled Kieran. It was the emotional equivalent of shoving me out of the room.

I hugged him _too_ tightly. “Call me tonight—okay?”

“Okay, okay,” he grumbled into my shoulder.

 

* * *

 

Outside, Morrigan pretended to be ‘allergic’ to something mysterious again.

“Morrigan, he’s going to be fine,” I put an arm around her shoulders and hugged her into my side as we walked across the quad. “We were fine here.”

“If you consider accidental-closet-pregnancy _fine_ ,” she snorted.

I laughed. “He’s way smarter than we were.”

She nodded.

It felt strange being here—the place where we both became mini-adults.

“Thank you for coming, Alistair,” she whispered. Her voice belied those allergies again.

I didn’t look at her, because I knew she’d hate it, but I rested my head on hers for a second. “You’re welcome, Morrigan. Thank you for _raising_ him.”

 

* * *

 

**Two Months Later**

           

On the day of the movie premier, Anders and I were dressed to the nines. It wasn’t every day that we got to walk a red carpet, of course. I elected to wear a crushed velvet blazer in forest green; his tux was navy. It was all very fashionable and trendy—and _pretentious_.

“Ready?” I asked in the limo. I grabbed his hand and squeezed it. This was, officially speaking, our first public outing.

He nodded and the door opened.

I was out first, but I didn’t break our connection to stand. I made sure our hands were gripped tightly enough that no number of hecklers could force them apart. As we both stood, a hundred voices shouted to us at once. Everyone wanted quotes, but we just smiled. I pulled him into my arms and kissed him at the head of the carpet. I knew what I was doing—it was a statement.

When we eventually pulled apart, I blinked at him a few times, smiling mischievously, and then turned back toward the cameras.

I don’t know how long we stood there, but it was one of the proudest moments of my life. Not because my novel was a film—not _even_ because I had been assured that it was going to win awards, based on early viewings—but because I was standing there, on the red carpet, holding onto Anders.

           

We were shown to our seats a few minutes later. Anders and I were in a box at the exact center of the old-style theater.

“Are you excited?” he whispered.

I shrugged. “I’m a little nervous, actually.”

“Why?”

“Because _you_ haven’t read the script… you don’t know how _terrible_ it is…” I laughed.

“Well, I’m not _staying_ …” he teased. “I was planning to sneak out as soon as the lights go down… didn’t you know?”

I rolled my eyes.

“Do you think that lady would show me the way out?” He pointed to a _very_ attractive brunette usher. I didn’t like the way she’d looked at him earlier. I’m terribly jealous…

“Yeah… just make sure you use a condom…” I shrugged.

He laughed and kissed me again as the lights dimmed.

 

* * *

 

The movie was _not_ as cringeworthy as I expected. The editing team had done some fantastic work with the final cut—everything flowed together relatively smoothly and Cullen’s death… I mean _Caleb’s_ death… was handled flawlessly.

Afterward, we were greeted by entertainment news types who—amazingly—didn’t want to ask me about my personal life. They wanted to know what I thought of the movie. And I had to say, I _liked it_.

“So, Mr. Theirin,” said one of them. She was looking at Anders. “What did _you_ think? There’s been a lot of speculation that this story is reminiscent of your husband’s real life?”

Anders cleared his throat. He wasn’t used to be interviewed like this, but he was excellent at public speaking.

“I thought the movie was wonderful,” he smiled at me. “...and all I can say is that Alistair is nothing like Austin—he’s much, _much_ sweeter _and_ tougher.” He kissed my cheek. Every camera clicked at once.

“And I think you’ll be seeing him back here for awards season,” Anders added.

 

* * *

 

Anders curled against my back in bed that night and whispered into my ear. “Your movie was really good…”

I smiled and pushed back against him. “You think so?”

“Definitely,” his breath on my neck made me shiver. “It wasn't as hard to watch as I thought it would be.”

That _could_ have been construed as a joke, but I knew him well enough to know it _wasn’t_.

“...I thought I’d be sort of jealous…” he admitted.

The story wasn’t particularly true—Caleb was ultimately good: a sacrificial lamb of sorts. But I knew what he meant… there was _a lot_ of Cullen in Caleb. And there was even more of _me_ in Austin, despite what he told those reporters earlier.

The part I was especially worried about were the interim years. They weren’t in the novel—they’d been cut by my publisher: an apocryphal collection of sadness—but Brittany really liked them. In the story, Caleb and Austin don’t speak for a decade, during which Austin has a _very nice_ boyfriend whom he doesn’t love at all. I have to admit, that character is about 9/10 Anders. I even called him Alex— _I am terrible at naming characters_.

“Why did you make me the guy you didn’t love?” he asked.

I cringed.

“He’s not you,” I lied.

He laughed. “Yeah, yeah… tell me another one…”

I turned over and kissed him a few times. I wanted to distract him, but it didn’t work. He backed up and quirked an eyebrow at me.

“I don’t know… I guess it was too hard to think of what _other_ type of person Austin would be with.”

“What?” he asked.

“Well… it’s just so hard to picture myself with anyone but you…” I smiled.

“Or Cullen, I suppose…” tisked Anders.

We both laughed. “I guess… he wasn’t that good in bed, you know…”

“Eww…” Anders rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. “I don’t want to hear about that…”

I sat up and looked down at him. “Are you _sure_? It will make you feel like a sex god…”

“I already feel like that.” He grabbed the skin of my hip. “Do you need a demonstration?”

I leaned in and kissed him.

“But seriously… like… that kiss was twenty times better than anytime Cullen kissed me…” I explained.

He groaned. “You’re going to tell me whether I want you to or not, aren’t you?”

I nodded and laughed.

“Okay…” I smiled at him. “For one thing… he was kind of _mean_.”

“You remember I _knew_ him for years, right?” Anders smirked.

“I mean… in the bedroom—he was selfish,” I moved so I was straddling Anders’ hips. My dick, which was sort of hard, flopped to the left of his unceremoniously.

“Again… I _knew_ him… I could have told you that…”

I laughed. “Also… his dick was kinda weird…”

“Gross.”

“Like… wearing a turtleneck of skin and sort of bent…” I laughed. “Like a witch’s nose…”

“Oh my _god_ , you’re the worst,” Anders covered his ears. “ _Please_ stop talking. I’m about to perforate my own ear drums.”

“Please don’t… I have so many _other_ things to say to you…” I leaned down until our chests were flush and bit the edge of his ear. “Like… how gorgeous you are… and how much I want you…”

He sighed. “I just don’t know if I can have sex with you right now… I’m picturing a witch’s nose…”

We both laughed.

He was lying, though. He made love to me that night like his life depended on it.

“I love you,” he mumbled.

“I love you too, Anders…”

“When we were on the red carpet… and you kissed me… were you _planning_ to do that?” he asked.

“Kind of…”

“Why?”

“Because I love you and I wanted everyone in the world to know that all this stupid press coverage hasn’t changed us at all,” I explained.

“It’s a nice sentiment… but I don’t think it’s _true_ ,” he interrupted.

I squinted at him.

“Let’s be honest, Al… it almost _ruined_ us…”

“—but it didn’t,” I raised an eyebrow. “ _I_ think it made us stronger.”

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This concludes this 5-chapter arc. Now we're going to get to see Anders and Alistair take on some turmoil united. They're better together. :)


	40. Old Friends - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An old friend comes out of the woodwork in the weeks following Alistair's movie premier. Just when everything seems like it can't get any better, life throws Al a curve-ball.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated M: serious topics (see updated tags), language

* * *

When I first published my book, I thought it _might_ bring people from my past out of the woodwork, but I wasn’t particularly worried—in general, people don’t _read_. People _do_ see movies, though. By the time my movie came out, I was sort of numb: I’d been through so much with Anders that I _forgot_ about the impact the movie would have.

It started almost immediately. After opening weekend, I received emails from old school mates and flowers at the studio. Luckily, no one had discovered my home address yet.

One particular day, about two weeks after the movie premiered, I was sitting at home with Anders when my phone rang. I felt the blood drain out of my face and was instantly sweating.

“Alistair?” Anders looked over at me with concern. “What's going on, Love?”

I turned the phone to face him. _It was Icis_.

“Hello?” I managed.

“Hi… how are you?” she asked.

“I'm okay…”

 _Silence_.

“Do you… need something?” I asked finally.

“It's just that… um… I saw your movie,” she blurted.

“And?”

“...and you made me seem like an _asshole_ ,” she huffed.

Anders mouthed, “What's happening?”

I shrugged. “Icis… she's not _you_ —”

“C’mon, Al… don’t be like that…” she interrupted.

Caleb’s wife in the movie was _not_ a nice person. She was called Ingrid… and she was sort of _aware_ of Austin’s feelings. Her lines were all disparaging and huffy. This was made more intense by the actress who played her—she had a permanent sneer.

“—It just turned out that way… I don't think of _you_ like that at all,” I explained. Quite the contrary, actually. I always thought of Icis as the most horrendously wounded member of our sad group. She was Cullen's _worst_ casualty and simultaneously someone I _admired_.

She interrupted me, “—I mean… at least Bella was represented as a real person… you  made me a _caricature_.”

“Would you have lunch with me?” I asked suddenly.

“Uh… yeah?” she didn't sound sure. “When?”

“In like an hour? Meet me downtown—I know a place.”

“Are you okay?” asked Anders.

“Yeah… I just need to make this right with her,” I breathed.

“I’ll be here when you get home,” he smiled.

 

An hour later, I pulled up to an exclusive place downtown. I'd eaten here a few times since the paparazzi decided my life was worth covering. The staff here was really good at keeping those types _out_. Icis was standing on the sidewalk, looking a bit bewildered.

“Hi,” I called. I threw my keys to the valet and ran up to her.

“Hi,” she parroted. “We're eating here?”

I nodded and stepped up to the host. His stand was on the sidewalk, completely surrounded by a tall, thick hedge.

“Theirin—party of two,” I pulled my sunglasses off nonchalantly.

“Of course,” he smiled.

On the way to our table, I accidentally put my hand in the small of Icis’ back. Not in a _creepy_ way—just to direct her—but she glared at me.

“So,” I cleared my throat and leaned into the table, “I'm sorry that you weren't happy with the movie…”

“It's not that…” she sipped a glass of wine and looked around the restaurant nervously. “It just brought up a lot of things for me…”

I nodded.

“I mean… I was _just_ starting to try to move on and now it's like Cullen has come back to haunt me.”

“But the character isn't Cullen,” I argued. “The events of the movie are fabricated—as you know…”

She rolled her eyes, “Alistair… there is a _lot_ of Cullen in that movie and you know it…”

I shrugged. I couldn't argue with that.

We managed to talk about some other things after that. She told me about Mia's preschool and about their new house. I told her about Kieran and my, perpetually-upcoming, wedding reception. We laughed… like two old friends. And then, suddenly, she asked me something I'll never forget.

“Do you still love him?” she asked.

“What?”

“ _Cullen_ … do you still love him?” She rested her chin on a fist and looked at me intensely.

“Yeah, I do…”

“That's what I thought…” she blinked slowly and sipped her wine. “I do too… that's the problem, isn't it?”

“Yeah, I guess it is.”

 

From that day on, Icis and I were _friends_. Not acquaintances, not people with shared history, but actual, _real_ friends. She called me to have lunch or when Mia needed a sitter. I called her to help me with my taxes and go to museums. We got closer all the time. As strange as it sounds, we were bolstering to each other—that jerk who almost ruined us actually allowed for one of the best friendships we ever ended up having in our whole lives.

 

* * *

 

One day, I came home to find her sitting in the living room with Anders.

“Hey sweetie,” I called without looking up.

“Hi,” they said in unison.

I blinked. “Oh! I didn't know you were here.” I dropped my things and sat next to Anders on the couch.

“Love you,” he whispered into my ear before biting it.

“Love you too…” I smirked at him in my periphery.

“What's up, Icis?” I smiled.

She looked uncharacteristically nervous. Anders and she exchanged a look I couldn't understand.

“Icis is going on a date tonight,” said Anders. “We need to watch Mia.”

“Okay…” I looked between them. “Is something wrong?”

“This is kind of a big deal, Al.” Anders rolled his eyes.

“Why?” I asked.

Icis laughed, “It’s not _that_ big of a deal…”

“Yes it is,” he smiled. “This is the first _major_ date Icis has been on…” He implied the rest of the sentence: ‘... _since Cullen died_.’

At least I _hope_ that’s what he was going to say… what I was thinking was more like: ‘ _since you ruined her marriage_.’

I swallowed hard.

“I'm just a little nervous…” Icis admitted.

“Who is he?” I asked.

“His name is Thom… I met him through a mutual friend…” she blushed while she was talking.

“What does he do?” I prodded.

“He makes furniture,” interjected Anders.

I scoffed, “What kind of a job is that?”

Anders laughed and hit my shoulder. “He’s an _artist_!” He pushed a laptop into my field of vision. “We looked him up.”

“You guys are the worst,” I laughed. Of course, I also leaned _way_ in to look at every inch of that website.

“Do you think he’s kind of handsome?” Icis asked me.

“Yeah, if you’re into _bears_ ,” I joked.

She made a face.

“Yes... he’s pretty handsome… and I’m sure he’s going to be very nice and you’ll have a great time,” I put an arm around her and squished her into my side. “And if it’s terrible, just text me an SOS and I’ll come get you.”

We all laughed.

“What are you wearing?” I asked.

Anders laughed at me. “What? Are you going to give her fashion advice now? Are we on a 90s sitcom?”

I threw a couch pillow at him. “I have _eyes_.”

 

* * *

 

Several hours later, Icis was on her way, Mia was tucked into Kieran’s bed in the room next door, and Anders and I were left to our own devices.

“I’m weirdly excited for her,” I whispered.

Anders filled two wine glasses and quietly laughed at me.

“What? I’m not allowed to be happy for my friend who is dating again after a very unceremonious widowing?” Even _I_ couldn’t keep a straight face for that sentence. It was exactly the type of thing Brittany would have cut from the script.

“You’re ridiculous,” he laughed.

Just then, someone knocked on our door. Anders shrugged.

“Hello?” I called, opening it broadly.

As soon as I saw the person standing in the hallway—hair soaked, coat buttoned haphazardly—I knew something was wrong.

“Kieran?”

“Hi.” His voice was a swallowed echo.

Anders and I exchanged a blank look.

“Kieran…” Anders gestured for him to come into the kitchen. “What are you doing here?”

He collapsed onto one of our kitchen stools and looked ahead unseeingly.

“I need to talk to you, Dad,” he said.

Anders looked at me and spoke through pursed lips, “I’ll give you two some space…”

Kieran looked up suddenly, “No—please _stay_ , Anders…”

“Okay.” Anders stopped moving instantly—his entire attention fixed on _our_ son. Anders was the best step-dad any kid could have asked for.

“Would you like some tea?” Anders asked.

He reached for a teacup. I imagined him filling it with scotch—that would have been appropriate for how _I_ was feeling.

Kieran nodded appreciatively. Anders had already started filling the kettle. Another of his great qualities is knowing what people need intrinsically. It’s like a super power.

“So… what can we do for you, Kieran?” I asked.

He bit his lip and looked up at me from under his soaked hair.

“Kieran,” I put my hand on his shoulder, “what’s happening?”

“Mom has cancer,” he blurted.

_Holy shit._

I’ve said goodbye to two people I loved in my life—first Cullen, then Morrigan. They both shaped me in ways I would _never_ have imagined. Cullen forged me in the fire and Morrigan tempered me into the person I am today. Saying goodbye to Cullen was horrible—it almost killed me—but saying goodbye to Morrigan was _worse_.

 

* * *

 

Anders finished the tea and dropped a steaming cup in front of Kieran, his composure unflappable. “When was she diagnosed?”

He shuddered and grabbed onto the tea. His hands were as big as mine—they dwarfed the teacup, but he held it like it was a lifeline.

He inhaled stutteringly, “I don’t know… but she’s really sick… and she wasn’t even going to fucking _tell_ me.”

Anders rounded the island to stand next to me. I think he knew that my knees were threatening to buckle.

“Kieran, how did you find out?” he asked.

“ _Paul_ told me…” he looked up at Anders and I saw tears in his eyes, “...on his way _out_. He’s gone.”

“Holy shit, Kieran,” I whispered. The whole thing made my skin crawl with pity and _fear_. I grabbed for him; wrapped my arms around his shoulders and kissed his head. Anders didn’t come closer—I wondered why at the time, but in a future therapy session he explained it: he knew Kieran needed his dad… and, more than that, he knew _I_ needed Kieran.

“Dad?” whispered Kieran, “what am I going to do?”

We all winced in unison. Not one of us knew.

 

* * *

 

“Uncle Alistair?” a tiny voice wafted in from the hallway.

_Shit. Mia._

“Hey Mia,” I rushed to scoop the tiny girl up in my arms and bring her back into Kieran’s room. She was only 4 at the time—wearing a footed-onesie and carrying a stuffed dinosaur.

“Alistair…” she struggled with my name. It sounded more like, ‘Al-i-shhh-terr’. “I had a bad dream.”

“Come here, little one,” I soothed, putting her back in bed.

I could hear Anders stomping around in the kitchen with Kieran. I was terrified and my heart was breaking, but I needed Mia to get back to sleep as soon as possible. I did _not_ want to have to explain this to Icis.

“Will you sing to me?” she asked.

I was in the habit of singing to her whenever she stayed at our house. Now she demanded it.

“Just a little bit,” I smiled down at her. “But only if you promise to keep your eyes closed.”

She nodded and settled in as I let 16 or 24 bars of a soft lullaby waft over her. Thankfully, she was softly snoring before I heard Anders in the hallway. He motioned to me through the crack in the door.

I eased the handle so that the whole door would close as noiselessly as possible.

“We need to call Morrigan—tonight,” Anders whispered.

I suppressed a growl. “Anders… this is a _nightmare_.”

“Right?” he laughed humorlessly and ran a palm over his face, “When the _fuck_ are we going to wake up?”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been sitting on this chapter for what feels like forever... I just couldn't seem to get it right. It has about four different versions in a trashcan folder... but when I put in that paragraph about saying goodbye to Morrigan, it all clicked.
> 
> This begins in the last arc for this story. I just want to thank everyone soooo much for all your lovely comments and for sticking with me through this (very sad) ride. I hope that you consider Alistair's personal arc and budding personal evolution as meaningful as I do. :) 
> 
> LOVE ALL OF YOU! :)


	41. Old Friends - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morrigan arrives. Later, in a therapy session, Alistair and Anders deal with some of their own issues that have been highlighted by this experience. Alistair visits Kieran at school and remembers Cullen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated M: cancer, therapy, etc.

* * *

By the time Morrigan arrived, I was also expecting Icis. Provided, I guess, that everything didn’t go _super_ well. (Which it _did_ , she didn’t come for Mia until the next morning.) For some reason, I hadn’t even considered the idea that she might spend the night with this Thom character. He seemed like a big old grumbly bear, not a potential love interest for her. How _wrong_ I was—two decades later, they’re still together.

“Hi,” I caught Morrigan in the hallway outside our apartment. I didn’t want her to come in without some warning. Anders hadn’t said much on the phone.

“Hello,” she clenched her jaw. “What the _hell_ is going on?”

“Kieran’s inside—he showed up unannounced,” I began.

Immediately, I saw the gears of war spinning behind her eyes. I put a hand on her shoulder. It was supposed to feel supportive, but I kind of felt like I needed to keep her from breaking the door down with her mind. She probably thought he was _hurt_ or in trouble. Her maternal instincts were the stuff of legend.

“What’s going on, Al?” gritted Morrigan.

“Morrigan… I—”

“Alistair. _What_ is it?”

“...he knows you have cancer,” I blurted.

At that point, Morrigan did something I’ll never forget. Instead of marching into the kitchen and crushing Kieran in a squeezing hug (like I would have), she leaned against the wall, looked down at her feet, and took three long, measured breaths. Then she stood up, straightened her shirt, shook her head, blinked a few times, and nodded.

I regarded her like a feral animal—trying to throw me off the scent of her sanguinary rampage—but there was no indication that she was about to do anything unseemly. She seemed calm.

“Well then,” she gestured to the door.

“Okay,” I stammered.

Inside the kitchen, Anders and Kieran fell absolutely silent when Morrigan entered.

“Kieran,” said Morrigan, sitting across from him. “I’m very sorry that you didn’t hear about this from me.”

Anders and I migrated toward each other on the opposing side of the island and sat. I’m not sure what he was thinking, but I imagine it was something like the shock and incredible admiration _I_ felt at Morrigan’s level of composure.

Then Kieran asked what we were all wondering, “Are you going to die?”

“It’s very likely,” she deadpanned.

I shivered.

“...and are you in treatment?” asked Kieran. “Chemo? Radiation?”

Morrigan shook her head. “It’s too advanced, Kieran,” she said quietly.

Kieran suddenly burst into tears. It was the first time I’d seen my son cry. I would have done _anything_ to ease his pain.

“Mom,” he sobbed, “you’ve got to _fight_ this,” he grabbed her hands and squeezed them where they sat on the countertop.

She tipped her head to the side to look at him, “Kieran… I don’t want to spend my last months on this earth in a hospital—I want to spend them with _you_.”

Kieran closed his eyes. A fat tear rolled down his cheek.

At the same time, Mia woke up for the second time that night, so I didn't hear what Morrigan said to Kieran next, but Anders did. I wanted to know every detail, but I didn't ask until we were in bed together that night.

 

“What did she say?” I asked.

Anders had his eyes closed next to me, but neither of us was sleeping. I didn’t think I’d ever sleep again.

“She said she loves him… and that she would do everything she could to make his life as easy as possible until she couldn’t anymore…” he rolled his head toward me, “because ‘ _that’s what mothers do_ ’.” He looked like he might cry too.

“Maker, Anders… I’m hurting,” I whispered.

“I know, Love,” he rolled me into his arms and kissed my forehead. “I know…”

 

* * *

 

The next morning, I woke to a phone call from Icis.

“Hi, sleepyhead,” she said, “Can you let me up?”

I blinked a few times. I started to put the pieces together almost instantly. It was morning. Anders was already awake somewhere—his side of the bed was empty and I could hear our cappuccino machine whirring. 

“Uh… yeah…” I mumbled.

“Great, see you in a minute.” She hung up.

“Anders?” I yelled.

He didn’t answer.

I threw on some shorts and padded toward the kitchen. “Anders? Can you let Icis up?”

I forced my glasses onto my face and looked around the room, slightly dazed. Morrigan and Kieran were sitting with Mia in the living room while Anders made breakfast in grand fashion. If someone had walked into my house that very minute, it would have seemed like everything in our lives was perfect. But it _wasn’t_.

“Hi, Al,” said Icis a minute later. She swung the door open and picked up Mia when she came running. “Hello, Sweetie… how are you?” She kissed the top of her head.

“I’m good,” babbled Mia. “Alistair sang to me.”

Icis smiled at me gently.

“Morrigan?” said Icis. “I haven’t seen you in ages! You look great,” she smiled.

What an ironic thing for her to say—it was true, though. Morrigan looked as beautiful today as she had in that closet.

“Hi,” Morrigan stood to shake Icis’ hand.

“So how was the date?” I asked.

Icis shot me a look and then let her eyes fall on Mia pointedly.

I blushed, “Tell me _later_ , then.” In truth, I didn’t really care about the date anymore. Before I knew that Morrigan had cancer—before I knew she was going to _die_ —I wanted to hear the whole story, but it felt hollow now.

“I’ve got to get going, Al,” Icis picked up Mia’s things and kissed my cheek on her way to the door. “Thanks for watching her.”

“Anytime,” I mumbled.

“Bye, Anders,” she called over her shoulder.

The stillness that settled over my kitchen in her wake was something I’ll never forget. Without that little girl in the room to shield us, our misery was overwhelming. The only one who knew even _remotely_ what to do was Anders.

“I think we need to get brunch,” he announced. He turned off the burners and dumped a bunch of almost-done eggs into the sink.

I looked at him, but I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t manage to care that he just wasted almost an entire carton of cage-free eggs from our co-op. It was Kieran who spoke.

“Yeah. Let’s do that…” he stood up. “Do you _want_ to, Mom?”

Morrigan nodded and we all gathered our things. I was the last one out of the house. Morrigan was right in front of me—she looked so _healthy_. I still can’t believe that was less than a year before she died.

 

* * *

 

At our next therapy session, Anders and I tried to work through our feelings, but we got horrendously sidetracked.

“Alistair… it isn’t uncommon for people to have these feelings when they’ve been through something traumatic,” said our therapist. His name was Rhys.

I wrung my hands in my lap. “I realize that… I just want to make sure that Anders knows what I actually _mean_.”

“I _do_ ,” Anders interrupted. He was sitting next to me on the couch, his arm slung over my shoulders.

I looked up at him. “Are you sure? You seem a little upset…”

“I’m not upset with _you_ ,” he said evasively.

Rhys interrupted us, “Let’s dive into that—Anders: what _are_ you mad at?”

He licked his lips. “I guess at myself…”

We’d gotten into something that we frequently talked about in therapy—Anders couldn’t forgive himself for all the time we spent almost breaking up. In light of Morrigan’s condition, he was feeling the gravity of mortality. _I_ just wanted him to drop it.

“I feel like a hypocrite… I’ve been such a raging _asshole_ to you, Al,” he dropped his head into a palm. “...and then the _one time_ you freak out in front of me—the only time in our whole lives—I run away for weeks and send us spiraling…”

“It’s okay, Anders… I don’t blame you for _any_ of that,” I explained.

“Alistair… let him finish, please,” Rhys instructed.

I nodded. All of this was hard to hear. I was in the habit of ignoring problems like this in favor of making love and buying things. Of course, I couldn’t do that with Morrigan… and I knew—somewhere deep—that I _shouldn’t_ do it with Anders either.

“... _I_ acted so unpredictably… if our roles had been reversed, I would have been beside myself,” Anders continued. “I want you to be able to count on my behavior as much as I can count on yours—especially now… with everything that’s _happening_.”

I grimaced.

“I think that’s a great point, Anders—thank you for sharing that,” said Rhys. He turned to face me. “Now… Alistair—what do you think about that?”

I paused. “Well, I don’t feel like Anders is unpredictable.”

“You don’t?” Anders gaped at me.

I shook my head. “No. I think you were _scared_ … and scared people do all kinds of crazy stuff… so within the construct of ‘ _what people do when they’re scared_ ,’ I think you’re pretty predictable.”

“But what about when I’ve _left_ before?” asked Anders.

I felt my jaw clench.

“I’m not saying I’m leaving—I’m not saying I _want_ to,” explained Anders. “What I’m saying is that I don’t know myself well enough to be able to tell…”

“I think I just always believed you were going to come back,” I explained. “Maybe not consciously… but intrinsically. Was that not _true_?”

Anders and I stared at each other—blinking and breathing.

“Well,” Rhys looked at his watch. “I think that’s a really good place to stop for today. You both know your homework?”

We nodded in unison. It always seemed like we finished these sessions at the worst possible time.

“Then I’ll see you back here next week,” Rhys smiled.

 

* * *

 

On the sidewalk, I held Anders’ hand. “So, do you want to get lunch?”

“I’m actually running kind of late,” he clicked his tongue and tapped his watch in annoyance.

It occurred to me that I was sort of afraid he wouldn't come home. Not _rationally_ —but after that session, I was questioning my assumptions about him.

“Let me rephrase that: will you please change your schedule and have lunch with me?” I asked. One of our homework pieces was saying what we mean—without nuance.

He turned to look into my face. “I _hear_ what you’re asking for. I _understand_ your needs, but I can’t change my schedule this afternoon.” He bit his bottom lip. “I _will_ have dinner with you, though. Can I have my assistant set us up somewhere nice?”

I managed to smile. “Yeah… just have him text me.”

“Okay,” he kissed me gently. “I love you; I’ll see you later.”

 

* * *

 

In the interim, I elected not to go home. Instead, I got right into my car and drove up to Genitivi to see Kieran. At the beginning of this week, he was reluctant to go back. He claimed he was going to take a leave of absence. Morrigan and I agreed that he should _not_ do that. Under duress, he’d finally agreed, with the stipulation that I come get him this weekend. Freshmen generally aren’t allowed to have cars on campus and Morrigan was still being stringent with his car usage, anyway.

I didn’t have any trouble with traffic. I arrived early and parked my car outside of my old dorm—the one I lived in when Cullen first walked me home. I can still _see_ him there—twenty-two and snarky; healthy and baby-faced.

I leaned against a tree. “Well, Cullen, the shit is really hitting the fan now…” I said aloud.

I’m not sure why I chose that particular tree—it wasn’t like we had picnics beneath its branches or anything ridiculous. We just passed it a lot—on our way to every class.

The saddest thing about being on campus was how much I loved every part of it that Cullen touched. No matter how much I love Anders—no matter how much I _know_ he’s the love of my life—Cullen was a part of me; a part I can’t erase.

Classes let out a minute later and students spilled onto the quad from every direction. In the crowd, I looked for Kieran’s brownish-red mop of hair. It was so long and unruly in those days; I used to harass him about it all the time. Anders always took _his_ side—he liked it a lot.

“Hey, Dad,” Kieran tapped my shoulder a minute later. I’d been facing the wrong way all along.

“Hi,” I hugged him. That would have embarrassed a lot of kids his age, but he didn’t bat an eye. We were both reeling—we _needed_ each other.

“Are you ready to go?” he asked me.

I nodded. “Do you want to grab lunch on the way?”

He threw his stuff in the back of the car and squinted at me.

“What?” I asked, perplexed.

“It’s just… I _want_ to spend time with you…” he mumbled. “...but I really _need_ to spend time with mom—as much as I can.”

“Of course… don’t worry,” I got in and engaged the engine.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” apologized Kieran from the passenger seat.

I put a hand on his shoulder, “You don’t need to be sorry—I totally get it.”

We sat silently for a minute.

“...besides,” I smirked. “Anders is taking me on a date later—it promises to be very fancy—I want to make sure I’m really, really hungry so I can enjoy it.”

We both laughed.

The rest of the ride passed uneventfully. We chatted about his classes, his friends, and a girl I think he had a crush on—although he wouldn’t admit it. Eventually, he changed the subject dramatically.

“Hey, Dad?” he was staring out the window.

“Yeah?”

“Are you still going to have a wedding?” he asked.

“Yeah, of course—Anders has been planning it for ages… it just got put on hold…” I trailed off.

He nods.

“But yeah... We’re going to do it eventually.”

“I think you should do it _soon_ ,” he said seriously.

“Why, Kieran?”

“Because I really think Mom would like to be there.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a really good feeling about the conclusion of all this. Bittersweet is my jam.


	42. Old Friends: Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Later that night, Alistair meets Anders for dinner. They finally come to a conclusion about their nuptials.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to @Groovymarlin who reminded me that people still care about this story. It really made my day. Lately, it's been all Coffee Shop stuff all the time--which I'm super thankful for too--but I'm so glad that people still care about the conclusion to this behemoth. 
> 
> If you like this story, I'd really like to hear from you. :)

* * *

**Later That Night**

After I dropped Kieran off with Morrigan I only had a short time until my date with Anders. His assistant Karl sent the reservation confirmation over. I never really trusted that guy—prematurely grey hair: it seemed weird to me. Also, I did _not_ like the way he looked at and talked about Anders. I’m pretty sure he was in love with him. Every time I stopped by Anders’ office, he gave me a dirty look.

There was this one time—

 _That’s_ another story. Let’s come back to that…

 

I went back to our place and got dressed in one of my favorite suits—navy blue with a paisley lining. It was tailored perfectly.

I arrived at the restaurant first.

“Mr. Theirin?” asked the Maitre D.

“Yes, hi.”

“Your table is this way—your husband called the front desk to say he is running late,” he explained. Anders often did things like this just to _prove_ that we were married—he could have easily called or texted my cell phone, but he liked it to be common knowledge that we _weren’t_ having business meeting.

“Okay, thanks…” I sat and waited while a bottle of wine showed up inexplicably. Anders sometimes did _that_ too—ordered things ahead. A ‘ _Theirin tab_ ’ was essentially inexhaustible in the estimation of restaurateurs.

It was a really good bottle of Chardonnay—full bodied, definitely aged in oak. In the years since we’d been together, I’d learned my way around a wine menu. Still, it was _nothing_ compared to Cullen. He could tell you the type of grape and the _region_ they came from with only one sip, blindfolded. He was _something_.

While I continued to wait, it occurred to me that I’d been thinking about Cullen too much today. It was triggered on campus, but I hadn’t stopped yet. I needed to reign it in before Anders showed up.

“Hi, Love,” he said suddenly. He looked absolutely perfect. I stood when he got nearer and kissed him. To this day, when I see him in public, I can’t believe he’s _mine_.

“Hi,” I smiled at him, sitting back down.

“I missed you today,” he began.

“I missed you too—I picked up Kieran from school…”

“How is he?” asked Anders.

“He’s doing better than I thought he would be… but he mentioned something I think we need to talk about,” I cleared my throat.

“Oh yeah?”

I nodded. “He asked me about our wedding.”

“And?”

“...are we still going to have one?” I asked.

Anders reached across the table to grab my hands and looked at me gently. “Of course we are… if that’s what you still want.”

It was a little silly to talk about this, considering we were already married. But still—it was symbolically important.

“Is this _really_ about Kieran?” he asked.

“Yeah… we just talked about it today,” I leaned into the table, “what do you mean?”

He shrugged, “I’m just wondering if it’s really about earlier…" He meant our therapy session. "I’m not _leaving_ , you know.”

“Not right _now_ , anyway,” I mumbled under my breath.

He heard me and rolled his eyes. “I _knew_ it.”

Our server dropped off eight oysters at the exact second we were about to start fighting. At that time in our relationship, I was learning to spot fights early and head them off. It’s a skill I’ve refined since then. We almost never fight now.

“Let’s not,” I said, picking up an oyster.

He laughed, “Yeah… okay…”

The rest of the night passed easily. He told me about his new cases, asked me about my day with Kieran, and we eventually finished. When we got outside to the valet, I realized I was sort of drunk.

“I don’t think I should be driving,” I said.

Anders looked at me quizzically. I _always_ drove.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, throwing the keys. “You’re okay, right?”

He nodded and got into the driver’s seat.

When I say that Anders is _not_ good at driving stick, that’s not a euphemism. He’s actually just _terrible_ at shifting at the right times. He grinds the clutch between gears and sometimes stalls. If we had more hills in this city, it would be an absolute catastrophe. I was a little afraid to get into the car with him.

A few minutes in, though, he was doing better than I thought he would. He got us up to 5th on the highway without any trouble and let his hand rest gently on the shifter between us.

“You’re kind of turning me on right now,” I joked.

He glanced at me, “What?”

I dropped a hand onto his thigh and slid it up toward his crotch. “You’re driving really well.”

He laughed, “I _can_ drive.”

“Yeah, I know… but you’re doing it with _style_.” I rubbed and massaged his thigh until I started to feel evidence of his dick.

“I’m not going to be able to drive well much longer if you keep that up,” he warned.

“We’re on this highway for another 13 miles… you don’t have to _do_ anything,” I noted. I walked my fingertips up until I could unbuckle and unzip his pants.

“What are you doing?” he tried to sound aghast, but he was laughing too. “You’re going to _kill_ us.”

“No, you’re going to drive _straight_ …”

He shuddered and blinked at the road a few times.

I leaned over the center console and reached into his pants.

“When was the last time you got road head?” I asked.

“11th grade…” he laughed, “Please don’t suck my dick in this car. I _really_ don’t want to crash it.”

I ignored him and pulled his fly open until his cock leaned against his stomach and I could stroke it. “Tell me about the time in 11th grade.”

He was breathing hard. He choked out the words. “She was this blonde…”

“ _She_?” I asked. “I thought you went to an all-boys school.”

He nodded. “I did… but there was an all-girls school down the street. They were like sisters…”

“Okay, continue,” I leaned in to get better leverage.

“Well… she had braces… and we were on a bumpy road,” he explained. “The whole thing hurt like a motherfucker.”

“Ouch!” I yelled and laughed. “That’s terrible! _That_ was the last blowjob you got in a car?”

He nodded.

“Okay, well, we can’t let _that_ stand.” I gripped the base of his cock with my hand and sucked it into my mouth.

He gasped and slightly veered. Thankfully, the highway was empty.

“Keep it together,” I coached from his lap.

“It’s a little hard to do with your lips on me like that,” he argued.

“Does that mean this feels good?” I asked. It was rhetorical, but he answered me anyway.

“Very,” he managed.

“You know… you could pull over… if you’re afraid…” I suggested.

He shook his head. “I’m okay.”

Looking back, I’m pretty sure driving while receiving a blow job is just as bad as being drunk—maybe _worse_ —but I wasn’t thinking.

“Well, if you’re _fine_ , then I must not be doing a very good job…” I doubled down and started to jack him off into my mouth.

“Holy…” he breathed, “Oh god…” He grabbed the steering wheel with both hands.

I would have _laughed_ if my mouth wasn’t so full. ...then we saw flashing blue and red lights.

“Oh shit… Al…” he gasped, hit the blinker, and started downshifting to pull over into the breakdown lane.

I flung back into my seat and hoped it wasn’t an obvious change from behind us. The second we parked, Anders grabbed his pants and tried to zip and buckle them. It didn’t come out perfect—his shirt didn’t get tucked back in. Its wrinkly ends fell over his lap unceremoniously. If someone had known what to look for, he or she could have put the pieces together pretty easily.

When the cop came up to the driver’s side window, she shined a light into our faces. I wondered if my mouth looked funny—my lips felt bruised.

“License and registration?” she asked. It was all pretty routine.

...but Anders _wasn’t_ okay. I looked over at him and saw he was _shaking_.

“The registration is in the glove box on my side, Officer,” I chimed in. “Can I go in there and get it?”

She nodded.

I wanted to nudge Anders so he’d take out his wallet, but he didn’t move.

“Sweetie… your license?” I whispered.

He shook his head like I’d snapped near one of his ears and mechanically retrieved his wallet. He produced his license and the cop walked back to her car.

“What’s happening?” I asked. “Are you okay?”

“Not really,” he looked pale.

I smiled, “We’re okay,” I looked over my shoulder at the cop back in her car, “She didn’t see anything—you were probably just speeding a little…”

Anders shook his head. “It’s not that…”

I squinted at him.

“It’s just…” he turned his head to look at me, “I haven’t been pulled over in ages… and I don’t have that much interaction with cops… it _reminds_ me…”

I shook my head. He didn’t need to go on. It reminded him of being _arrested_.

I grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “It’s okay… I love you. We’re going to be home before you know it. If you want, I can switch with you as soon as she pulls away. I’m okay to drive now…”

“I’m okay,” he assured me.

 

* * *

 

True to his word, he got us the rest of the way home. On top of that, the cop only gave us a warning. She was probably just trying to figure out if we’d been drinking—I’m sure his road position wasn’t stellar. When we got into bed that night, he curled into my chest and wrapped his arms around me.

“Sorry about earlier,” he said.

“Why are you sorry?”

“I dunno… I just hate being the one who always freaks out…” He explained. “I’m so fucking _broken_.”

I pushed him until we could look at each other face to face. “You are _not_ broken—at least not more broken than I am.”

He smiled meagerly. “I just wish I didn’t have all these insane hang-ups. You’d think I was kept in a dungeon for the first 30 years of my life… it’s like I don’t know how to do _anything_ …”

We both laughed a little.

“Seriously… I just wish you didn’t know me like this,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“...when we got together—the first six months or more—I was really kind of _sexy_ , don’t you think?” he asked.

“I _still_ think you’re incredibly sexy,” I pulled him toward me across the sheets until our hips touched. “Hence the road-head.”

He smiled, “I just mean… when I first picked you up in that bar… and when I orchestrated our first date… wasn’t I kind of smooth?”

I laughed. “Yeah… incredibly smooth.”

“So where is that guy now?” He was smiling, but I knew him well enough to see the sadness peeking through.

“He’s still in there… we’ve just been through some shit lately…” I said.

He nodded and kissed me gently. We fell into a rhythm of kissing and groping until we were a little breathless. I had half a mind to pick up where I left off with his dick in my mouth, but he interrupted me before I had a chance.

“I still want to get married… publicly,” he said. “You know that, right?”

I smiled, “Yeah… of course.”

“Let’s do it this month.”

“Really?” I grabbed his sides tighter reflexively.

“Yeah… I mean… I’m a Theirin—money is no object,” he laughed.

“You’re a _Theirin_ …” I parroted. I was blushing furiously. I _still_ love sharing a name with him.

He smiled and brushed our noses together. In the darkness of our bedroom, I could only  make out a few of his features, but everything I _could_ see was beautiful.

“I love you, Anders.”

“I love you too, Alistair.”

* * *

 


	43. Weddings and Funerals - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair has an embarrassing experience on the night before his wedding. Anders is the best, as per usual. A memory involving Anders' assistant, Karl. (tags updated to match)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated M: lots of talking about dicks, to be honest. What else is new?

* * *

The worst thing about having an affair is that it's a _spoiler_. I mean, of course, that it makes sex incredibly exciting because it's risky and rare and new every time. Even three years into my affair with Cullen, we _never once_ couldn't get it up. The novelty gave it mystique.

Unfortunately, real life isn't like that— _marriage_ isn't like that.

The first—and I wish I could say _only_ —time I couldn't get it up with Anders I transiently wished I was dead— _mortified_ doesn't begin to cover it. To make matters worse, It was the night before our wedding.

“It's okay,” he said.

This was the farthest from _okay_ I could imagine. I wanted to _cry_ a little—embarrassment often feels fatal in the moment.

“It happens,” he said.

The fact that he was being so nice about it made me feel even worse. He'd had an especially shitty day—his firm lost a big client, his favorite paralegal quit without notice, and he'd found a new clump of grey hairs.

Ironically, _I_ had almost no grey hair, but I felt like I was 100—in bed with Anders and a limp dick.

“I might as well start eating canned food and wearing adult diapers...yelling at kids to get off my lawn,” I complained.

“Sweetie—it's _normal_ ,” he said.

“Yeah? I don't recall this ever happening to _you.”_ I groused. He was forty at the time and showing no signs of aging in that department.

He shrugged. As he did so, the covers fell down from his shoulders, exposing his chest to me in the light from the hall. He was incredibly good looking, but my dick made no attempt to respond. I sighed at it disgustedly.

“Anders…” I buried my face in my pillow, “I might have to go sleep in Kieran’s room—I can’t face you right now.”

“Don’t say that…” he kissed my cheek. “Also… _so what_ if your dick doesn't work—you still have a _mouth_ , right?”

I looked up at him—horrified expression prominently displayed across my cheeks.

He wiggled an eyebrow at me, “Suck it, _bitch_.”

We laughed so hard we snorted.

When the laughter faded, he pulled me into his chest and sighed. “I love you, you know.”

“Yeah…” I sighed. “I’ve heard that…”

“Are you scared about tomorrow?” he asked.

I sat up and looked down at him. “No—this has nothing to do with that…” I was so vehement in my denial that he furrowed his brow incredulously.

“It’s okay if you are—we could talk about it,” he said.

“But I’m _not_ ,” I argued.

“Okay,” he raised his palms in surrender. “Whatever you say, champ.”

I made a face. “What’s with the diminutive?”

“You’re being petulant, so I’m calling you a _child’s_ nickname,” he smirked.

I relaxed back into his chest and spoke into the skin. “I’m a little nervous… but I don’t really know _why_.”

“It’s a big deal to get married,” Anders said.

“Yeah… but we’re already married,” I countered.

“Not like this. The only way we’ve been married—publicly—is through the tabloids. It isn’t a good association,” he posited. “Maybe you’re recoiling from it a little?”

“Don’t psychoanalyze me,” I complained.

“Fine… let’s talk about _me_ , then,” he rubbed the skin of my back while he talked. “I’m really scared about tomorrow. I think it’s going to be a little stressful to have _this many_ people looking at us… and I don’t like to cry in crowds.”

I picked up my head and rested my chin on his sternum. “Really?”

He nodded. “But I think it’s going to be worth it at the end…”

“Me too,” I agreed. “You’re going to cry?”

“Probably—aren’t you?”

“Maybe… I hadn’t thought of it,” I shrugged.

Anders moved us until we were face to face. “I think when you hear my vows, you’re definitely going to cry.”

I smiled involuntarily—like a reflex.

“They’re pretty emotionally manipulative _so_ …” he laughed.

It was then that I realized I was sort of _aroused_. I didn’t want to jinx it, so I nonchalantly peeked, but Anders caught me.

“See? I knew you were scared,” said Anders.

 

* * *

 

The next morning arrived with a lot of pomp and circumstance.

“Has anyone heard from the caterers?” yelled Icis.

“It’s okay, Icis,” I tried to calm her down. It was sort of funny—wasn’t she supposed to calm _me_ down? It was _my_ wedding…

“They’re half an hour late…” she groused. She was _sort of_ like my maid of honor… although we didn’t have a wedding party, per se.

“Don’t worry—I’m sure they’ll show,” I said. “And if they don’t, we can all just go to a restaurant…” I laughed, but she frowned at me.

She continued pacing and checking her phone.

“Um… have you seen Anders this morning?” I asked.

She stopped pacing to look at me reproachfully. “Yes… but _you_ shouldn’t.”

I rolled my eyes, “I don’t believe in luck…”

“It’s not _luck_ —it’s tradition,” she argued.

I made a face. I hate tradition even more than superstition—following rules for no reason? Doing something because other people have done it before? It’s antithetical to my core beliefs.

“We fucked last night,” I deadpanned. Of course, I didn’t go into details about how _difficult_ that was.

She rolled her eyes. “God, Alistair… you couldn’t keep it in your pants for _one night_?”

I knew she was kidding—and _I_ started it—but that was probably the first time she’d made a sex joke. For a split second, I wondered if she was thinking of the past—Cullen’s study, watching me desperately trying to find my clothes, crumpling in the doorway.

“Yeah… _well_ …” I mumbled.

She gave me a strange look.

I changed the subject: “Where’s Anders now?”

She sighed, “He’s in my room getting ready—it’s 1504.”

I smirked. “I’ll be back in 20.”

At the same time, Kieran walked in with an armful of programs. I hugged him too tight, winked at Icis, and left without another word.

* * *

 

Upstairs, I knocked.

Anders appeared wearing a towel around his waist and smirked at me. “You didn't get enough last night?”

I laughed. “Not nearly.” I stepped into the room and bolted the door behind me in case Icis decided to come check on us.

Anders' hair was freshly dried. I could tell by how soft it looked.

“Did you _plan_ to be almost naked when I came up here?” I teased, sucking his bottom lip into my mouth.

“Happy accident,” he laughed between kisses.

He dragged me back toward the bathroom and perched himself on the edge of the counter amidst myriad travel-sized toiletries.

“Anders, you look amazing…” I whimpered into his mouth.

“I’m not even dressed yet…”

“I know… I strongly prefer that,” I growled.

“Al?” He interrupted me. “Al…? You're going to ruin your tux.”

“I want you,” I breathed.

“You have to wait,” he said. He didn’t look serious, though—he looked _hungry_.

“But what if this is our only chance before I stop being functional?” I joked. “I’m old and feeble, remember?”

He laughed and unbuttoned my first few buttons.

In the mirror over his shoulder, I watched the muscles of his back respond to each finite movement in a way I’ll never forget.

At the exact second I thought I might have won him over, there was a knock on the door.

“Probably just a cleaning person,” I whispered.

Anders shrugged and smiled as I bit down on the left side of his neck.

 _Knock-knock_.

“Maker…” I grumbled.

“Dad?” I heard through the door. “ _Dad_?” Kieran repeated.

I was instantly clear-headed and flaccid.

I unbolted the door. “Hi, Kieran.”

“Icis says you need to come down,” he said. She had roped him into being her unofficial assistant. Then he squinted at me, “I thought you were _ready_ a minute ago.”

I had almost forgotten that I was fully dressed and pressed when I saw him downstairs.

Anders swung through the bathroom door and smiled, “I spilled water on his shirt so we need to take it off to hairdry it.”

Kieran smiled, but I’m sure he didn’t believe a word of it. He wasn't twelve—he was in college.

“Okay, well, if you don’t come downstairs soon, I think Icis might lose it,” he cautioned.

Anders and I laughed.

Kieran made a face, “I’m not kidding—she’s scary right now.”

We nodded to each other and promised to come right downstairs. (When my shirt was dry, ostensibly.)

           

* * *

 

As soon as the door was closed, I laughed and hugged Anders against my chest. We rocked gently until we were perpendicular to the mirror. I smiled at our reflection.

“Man… we make a good-looking couple,” I laughed.

He smiled and turned to look at himself straight on in the circle of my arms. “I love you, Alistair.”

“I love you too,” I kissed the side of his head. His hair smelled fantastic.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“To go downstairs?”

“No… to get _married_ ,” he smirked. “To me… forever…”

“I was _already_ committed to you forever—long before we ever made it legal.”

As I was finally putting myself back together enough to leave the room, his phone buzzed on the counter.

“It’s Karl,” he shrugged.

I rolled my eyes.

 

_I guess now’s as good a time as any to tell that story..._

* * *

          

**Several Years Ago**

“Hi,” I looked around the office nervously, “I’m here to see Anders…” I leaned into the reception desk and tried not to sweat. We were really _new_ at the time. We’d been together for exactly two months and he was still, technically, suing me.

“You can check in with his assistant at the end of the hall,” said the receptionist. She pointed.

I nodded obligingly and trudged past at least thirteen different offices on either side of the hallway until I reached the last one. It occurred to me all at once that Anders was a _big deal_ at this firm.

The first thing that struck me about Karl—whose name I did not yet know—was his hair. It was completely grey although he was probably not much older than Anders. The second thing I noticed was that he was _scowling_ at me.

“Um hi… Is Anders available?” I asked tentatively.

He tipped his head to the side and raised an eyebrow, “What is this regarding?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer him, so I defaulted to a lie. “He’s the opposing counsel on a copyright infringement case… Highever Review v Denerim Times?” I regretted making it sound like business as soon as I said it. I wished I was braver: ‘ _He’s my boyfriend. I’m just visiting_.’

“What is your name?” he asked me.

“Alistair Theirin…”

“Take a seat, Mr. Theirin,” said Karl.

I smiled and sat down on the other side the reception area—approximately ten feet away from his desk.

He picked up the phone and dialed. He turned away from me, so I couldn’t hear the whole conversation, but I picked out some choice words, “...some _person_ here to see you,” and “... _dubiously_ dressed.”

I laughed to myself.

A minute later, Anders appeared on the other side of that ominous door. The second he was in sight, I watched Karl’s attitude change dramatically. The minute he looked at Anders, his whole face lit up—eyes wide and expression soft.

It was then that I made myself a promise I would _never_ tangle with him. A person with that much unrequited admiration can be dangerous. _I should know_.

“Hi, Al,” said Anders. “Come in.”

Before he closed the door behind us, he turned to Karl, “Please tell my 2 o’clock that I’m running fifteen minutes behind.” He winked. I watched the color drain out of Karl’s face.

“You could have just told him you were here to visit me—he’s been my assistant for years,” explained Anders. “He came out here to the Denerim office all the way from Highever just to help me during this case.”

Jealousy roiled in my gut.

“What?” he asked suspiciously.

“I think he’s into you,” I blurted.

Anders laughed theatrically. “No he isn’t.”

I didn’t argue, but I was right—I’m _still_ right.

 

* * *

 

**Presently**

“What does he want?” I mouthed to Anders.

He shrugged.

“Yes… I understand… well, tell them I’m getting married today,” said Anders into the phone. “Yes… I _am_ already married…”

I squinted at him. I couldn’t _imagine_ what Karl was saying on the other end.

“I know _you_ know that…” Anders rolled his eyes. “But do _they_ know that?” He ran a hand through his hair. “Well, I’m allowed to have a ceremony anytime I want… the point is I’m not in the office until next week…”

I wrapped an arm around Anders’ waist and licked his neck. I liked to fuck with him when he was talking to Karl. I’m possessive like that.

He almost laughed, “No… Karl… just tell them I’m out. I have to go…”

He paused.

“Besides, aren’t you on your way here?” he asked.

“What?” I felt my eyebrows rise.

Anders pushed me off and waved at me to go away, but I wouldn’t. Eventually, he hung up.

“He’s coming?!” I asked, exasperated. We’d each made our own guest lists, and I hadn’t really inspected the entire, finished product.

Anders rolled his eyes, “Of course… I’ve known him since I first graduated law school… that’s practically a lifetime.”

“...but he hates me,” I pouted.

“He does not,” laughed Anders. “He’s just jealous…”

“You’re actually admitting he has feelings for you now?” I smirked.

“Well, we did hook up once…”

I gasped in feigned shock. “You did _not_!”

He blushed. “I did… it was a long time ago… before he worked for _me_.”

“How did you meet him?”

“He was the head legal admin for the AIDS foundation I worked for…” Anders explained.

"That sounds like working for you…"

"He worked for the foundation, not me." He rolled his eyes again.

I squinted, “But…I thought you were with Hawke back then?”

He pursed his lips together and looked at me pointedly.

“ _Oh_ …”

He ran a hand through his hair, “You're not one to talk, ‘ _Mister-I-had-an-affair-for-years_ ’.”

He had me there.

“It was actually _because of_ Hawke that we hooked up…” explained Anders. “You see… Karl knew about Hawke’s temper.”

“He knew you were being abused?” I asked. As I said the words, I pulled Anders into my arms again. I couldn't talk about this without holding him—I still can’t.

Anders nodded. “He knew bits and pieces, but one particular night, he heard me and Hawke fighting and found me crying in my office.”

I nodded. No matter how innocuously our conversations started, we couldn’t seem to avoid this kind of tragedy.

“One thing led to another and we ended up _together_ on my desk.”

My mouth dropped open, “You banged him in your _office_?”

Anders smirked, “He banged _me_ , actually.” He coughed.

“Oh my…” I shook my head. “I wish I didn't know this… now I'm going to be picturing Karl bending you over a desk during our whole wedding… why would you do this to me?”

Anders laughed and kissed my cheek. “Now you know how I felt every time Cullen was around…”

He had a point.

“Anyway… we never hooked up again after that,” he concluded.

“Did Hawke ever find out?” I asked.

“No—thankfully…” he looked down at the floor. “That would have been _bad_ for me.”

I shivered.

“Okay… you need to go downstairs,” he said suddenly. “I’ll see you in a couple minutes.”

I wanted to argue, but I didn’t because of what he said _next_.

“Despite all the shitty decisions we’ve made, our lives have turned out _amazing_.”

 

It was with that in mind that I delivered the eulogy at Morrigan’s funeral.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're closing in on the end of this story. Thank you for all the support and your contributions. You've all shaped this into something I really care about.
> 
> Sometime before the end, we'll talk about my upcoming projects. I have a feeling you're going to like them.


	44. Weddings and Funerals - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it... the last chapter ever. 
> 
> Alistair and Anders finally have their wedding. Alistair relates it to the funeral. The story culminates in a 22-year-later epilogue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because the epilogue is happening "now" (when Alistair is telling this story to the reader) it's suddenly in first person _present_ tense. I hope it's not too jarring. :/

* * *

Our wedding was at a really cool venue: a brick-lined courtyard with an industrial feel between two of the city’s oldest buildings. It had an outdoor bar on the left and an enclosed area on the right where all the food lived. Kieran and I were cloistered in a vestibule at the back of the hall while Anders and a few of his friends were under an overhang. I couldn’t see them, but I knew they were there because Isabela laughs so loud.

Morrigan’s hand was suddenly between my shoulder blades.

“How are you?” asked Morrigan.

“I’m great,” I smiled. In truth, I was _nervous_ —but I’m still not sure why.

She eyed me suspiciously, “You know, it’s _normal_ to be a little jittery.”

I shrugged, “Yeah… I know…”

We smiled at each other. It occurs to me now that the hallway was a little like a closet, and that I _should_ have felt awkward in there with her… but I didn’t.

“Well, I’ll be right up front,” she said. She kissed my cheek and hugged me. Even though we didn’t get to spend very many years as friends, I cherish those memories.

The sky was extremely clear that night, which was lucky, since we had no backup plan for rain. When I asked Anders about it—repeatedly—he just said, ‘It _can’t_ rain.’

Standing in that little vestibule, looking out at strings of Edison bulbs, I felt my heartbeat in my throat. That was the day I was going to marry Anders—for _real_.

           

I can’t remember the words we said, although I know I have it recorded somewhere. What I _do_ remember is the look on Anders’ face when we first saw each other at the front of that venue, with all our friends watching. He looked like he’d never been so happy or so terrified. It was the same look I had when I said goodbye to Morrigan.

 

* * *

 

**7 Months Later**

“Alistair,” she said, “It’s over.”

“No,” I argued. “It isn’t. This is just another downswing… you’ll bounce back!”

She shook her head. Her face was pale, her cheeks sunken. She looked like someone else entirely—not the Morrigan I loved.

“Alistair,” she steeled her expression, “I need you to take care of Kieran for me.” He had already moved all his remaining things to my apartment. She’d been preparing him for weeks, but it still didn’t seem real.

I closed my eyes. It was painful. “Morrigan—stop it.”

She put a hand on my forearm. “You’re wonderful.” She was hooked up to a variety of monitors at this point, even in her own home, so it was hard to reach me. She’d insisted on doing this with hospice.

“I’m not wonderful, I’m indignant.” I was pouting.

She smiled. I don’t know how she managed it. “Alistair, it’s time.”

“Please don’t say that.”

“You’d rather I lied?” She rolled her eyes and hit my arm. It was such a weak tap; I almost didn’t understand what she was _doing_ at first. Her muscles were wasted and her limbs gangly.

I shrugged. “I’d rather we weren’t in this situation.”

“Well, we are.”

 _I know_.

“Tell Kieran that I love him,” she said. “Also, tell him that he’s not allowed to get married or have children until he’s established…”

I laughed.

“You’ll make sure he’s all set before then, right?” she asked.

“Yes, of course.”

“Then there’s just _one_ other thing…”

I leaned in so I could hear her better. Her voice was becoming softer and softer as the days passed.

“Make sure he doesn’t see me again,” she said.

“ _What?”_ I gasped.

“I don’t have much time left…” she said. Her eyes looked glassy. “...and I want him to remember me differently.” She ran her palms across the flat planes of her abdomen. She was so small—half the size she was at my wedding.

“I don’t know how to prevent that, Morrigan…” I laughed bitterly, “What do you want me to do? Kidnap him?”

She laughed and coughed.

I handed her a glass of tepid water, which she swallowed with effort.

“Just don’t bring him here _tomorrow_ ,” she said definitively. The implication was clear—she wasn’t going to be here after that.

I dropped my head against her shoulder and tried not to cry. She didn’t need to handle anyone else’s emotions—she had enough to contend with.

“Morrigan,” I whispered.

“Hmm?”

“I love you,” I said.

She laughed like I’d just told the world’s best joke, but I knew what it meant: she loved me too.

 

I didn’t bring Kieran the next day. I agonized over it, but ultimately, I thought she knew what she was doing. After all—she’d been a parent a lot longer than I had. He also didn’t specifically _ask_ to go see her. He was wrapped up in orchestra rehearsals.

At the moment I got the call—the call I dreaded, but knew was coming—I was watching Kieran play the most beautiful violin solo I’ve ever heard. To this day, I feel like weeping when I hear Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto in D Major. ...and because of the way Kieran’s life worked out, I hear it a lot.

“Kieran,” I pulled him aside after the concert. “You were amazing.”

“Thanks, Dad,” he smiled tentatively. “Is Anders here?”

“He couldn’t make it.” I bit my lip. “He’s stuck in court.”

“No worries… he’s heard me practice that piece a thousand times.” Kieran shrugged.

I swallowed a lump in my throat. “Kieran… I have to tell you something.”

The look on my face must have given me away, because he instantly started crying.

I grabbed him and squished him into my chest. “I’m so sorry…”

He mumbled something that sounded like he was angry and sad and _destroyed_. How else could he have felt?

“We’re going to get through this,” I whispered. “I promise.”

 

* * *

 

Awards season came before I even knew it. The day I received word that my movie had been nominated for some awards—most notably, Best Adapted Screenplay—I was at home with Anders. Kieran was sitting with us in the living room.

“Well, I don’t think I can go,” I argued.

Anders rolled his eyes at me. “You _have to_ go—you’re going to win an academy award!”

“There aren’t any guarantees.” I folded my arms across my chest and pouted.

“Besides,” added Kieran. “Mom would have wanted you to go… she didn’t want us to stop living.”

He was right about that. She wanted me to keep enjoying everything. During the last day we spent together, I sat by her bedside and read to her—the classics: Jonathan Swift and Henry Fielding. She laughed and smiled at all the right times… until she couldn’t anymore. When she stopped huffing at my diction, I knew—it wouldn’t be long.

“Dad,” Kieran cocked his head to the side, “you need to go.”

 

So we _went_. Anders and I emerged from the limo together—similar to our first red carpet experience, but nicer, since we were more removed from all the scandals of last year.

“Mr. Theirin!” shouted a reporter, “What are you feeling about your chances tonight?”

I blushed, “I’m just extremely honored to be nominated.” Then I smiled at Anders, “...and I’m incredibly happy _this guy_ decided to be my date.”

We both laughed.

When it came time to give my speech—because I _did_ win, surprisingly enough—I thanked everyone.

“None of this would have been possible without my fantastic production team and the cast. They put up with a lot of crap from me… but no one puts up with more crap than my wonderful husband.” I watched Anders blush when the cameras panned to him. “...and my son, Kieran.” He was sitting next to Anders, looking similarly bewildered.

“I also want to thank everyone who thought this stupid novel was worth anything. To be honest, I still think it’s garbage.” I laughed and exited before they had to play music to cue me. On the way back to my seat, I _silently_ thanked Morrigan and Cullen: the people without whom I wouldn’t be who I am… and the people who I still wish could have been there.

 

* * *

* * *

 

**22 Years Later**

 

“Dad?” calls Kieran. “Are you home?”

We’re living in a beautiful house in the suburbs now—close enough to drive in at a moment’s notice, but far enough away that we have a yard. Anders has a _garden_.

“Out here,” I yell from the back porch.

I hear a little shriek of excitement peel through the kitchen and I know who it is.

“Hi grampa!” calls a little voice. Her name is Morgan. It’s as close as Kieran and his wife would come to naming her after Morrigan. Morrigan is a hard name to grow up with, I’d imagine.

“Hi!” I pick her up and twirl her in a circle. It’s funny—she looks like me: reddish hair and big brown eyes. If you asked Anders, he would tell you she has a lot of _him_ in her too. Despite the obvious genetic flaw in his logic, he’s _right_ : she’s kind and smart and really good at arguing already—like, _terrifyingly_ good at it.

“Where’s Papá?” she asks. She means Anders—I don’t know _why_ he’s called that, but it happened organically, so we didn’t try to change it.

“He’s in the kitchen—you can go get him.” I kiss the top of her head and she’s _gone_ —zipping through the veranda doors.

“Happy birthday, Dad,” says Kieran. He’s wearing a smirk that I know from my own face. Having kids is so weird—especially as they become adults.

“Thanks, Kieran,” I smile.

At that same minute, his wife, Sarah, tackle-hugs me. She’s _really_ nice. “How do you feel?!” she asks. “The big 6-0.”

I’m not actually sure—half the time I’m convinced I’m still 20; the other half I feel like I’ve been 60 for most of my life.

Anders appears and answers for me, “He’s been having a mini-crisis, which seems insensitive since I live in a post-60-paradigm.” He’s 63.

I roll my eyes at him. “Get over here.” I make a face that I know still looks charming even with the wrinkles around my eyes.

“ _Make_ me,” he jokes.

“Dear god, you guys…” complains Kieran. “There’s a kid in your house…”

The doorbell rings.

“That’s probably Icis and Thom,” says Anders. He disappears around the corner and I hear him say hello to everyone, including someone I don’t expect. “Mia—you look so tan! I didn’t know you were going to be back from Seheron already!”

Mia is getting her PhD in anthropology. I haven’t seen her since her college graduation almost four years ago, although I get the updates from Icis. When she rounds the corner, it strikes me: she looks just like Cullen. I think that all the time, of course. I could tell when she was three and ten and sixteen, but it’s never been more obvious than it is now.

“Hi, Uncle Al,” she says. She hugs me. “Happy birthday.”

“Thank you.” I smile. “How are you doing these days?”

“Really great.” She rubs the back of her neck with her palm—just like Cullen would have. “I think I’m going to be finishing my research this year… then it’s onto writing my dissertation—I might need you to help me edit it.”

It occurs to me that I was never that good at editing—that’s what I had Morrigan for—but I agree anyway.

“Of course.”

“Hey, _Old Man_ ,” says Icis. She’s been directing Thom to set up several bowls of food and _more_ than several wine bottles. “Feeling your mortality?”

“I wasn’t… until _now_ …” I mumble. “Thanks for that…”

She laughs and kisses my cheek. “Can you believe how grown up this one is?” She throws an arm around Mia’s shoulders.

“ _Mom_ …” Mia blushes. It’s a shade of pink her father never turned, but she has his dimples.

“All right, all right,” Icis rushes away from us to pour herself a drink. She’s still _really_ fun.

The birthday party gets underway and lasts until late into the night. Kieran ends up playing an acoustic guitar around our fire pit and I do some singing. He’s a professor of music now—he plays more instruments than I can count, but the violin is still his favorite.

Eventually, Morgan gets sleepy and everyone else takes that as a cue to head home. Anders and I work our way to bed and regroup.

“I love you, you know,” he whispers. “Even though you’re old… I’ve decided not to trade you in.”

“Perfect,” I pull him into my chest and kiss his hair. It’s mostly gray now, but he still has a few blonde pieces that fall into his eyes. “I was hoping you’d say that… you’re still pretty good in bed...”

He laughs.

“Did you see Mia today?” I ask suddenly.

He shifts his weight against me. “Yeah—she looks super grown up, right? Like a real adult.”

“She looks just like Cullen.”

I can’t see him, but I know he’s rolling his eyes.

I argue with his silence. “I’m allowed to _notice_ stuff… I can’t help it.”

He props himself up on an elbow and looks down at me. “You’re allowed—it’s just funny… he’s been dead for a quarter century.”

That word _‘dead’_ rolls off this tongue so easily. I still can’t really say it—not about Cullen and _especially_ not about Morrigan.

“I know…” I shrug.

He leans in. “I _understand_ , though… the people we love never really die… not in _here_.” He kisses the flat of my chest.

“I’m not going to be able to function when _you_ die,” I blurt.

“Well… _that_ got dark…” he laughs.

“I’m serious—you’re the most important person in the world to me,” I add.

“Why are you assuming I’m going to die first?” He quirks an eyebrow.

I guess I _was_ assuming that. He’s older than I am, but I know that answer isn’t going to win me any points—and I’d really like to have birthday sex.

“I’m not—I just love you…” I crane my neck to kiss him. “...that’s all.”

“I love you too…” He stares off into the distance over my shoulder.

“What?”

“I just…” he pauses, “—never imagined everything would turn out _okay_.”

“Really?” I ask.

He laughs incredulously, “Yeah… _really_. We’ve been through some shit, Al.”

“ _I_ never doubted it.” I mean it, too.

“You have a lot more faith than I do, apparently,” he says.

“I don’t need to have faith—I have _you_.”

 

THE END

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that’s it, readers! I hope that you enjoyed this story as much as I did. I was recently told that my work is too sad for people to read--that the tags alone are a deterrent. If you’ve stuck with me this long, I think we can agree that sadness teaches us lessons. Sometimes tragedy is the best learning experience we can have. Certainly, that’s true in this story.
> 
> If this spoke to you, I’d love to hear from you in a comment or on tumblr/twitter @ponticle. Also, fear not: there is plenty of other Alistair/Anders content available. Check out the [Coffee Shop Universe](http://archiveofourown.org/series/606277), which is much lighter and cuter than this one, or [A Name](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8083672), if you’d like to read something in the canon setting. My [Tumblr Prompts](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7359163) also have a fair number of Alistair/Anders love. 
> 
> ...and I always have a new project (or 18) up my sleeve. Subscribe for future updates! :) 
> 
> Thank you again! All my love! --ponticle


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